


Redemption Arc

by galaxysoup



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Asexual Castiel, Castiel & Charlie friendship, Depression, Fallen Castiel, Friendship, Gen, Human Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Panic Attacks, Post Season 8, Soon To Be Jossed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-12
Updated: 2013-09-12
Packaged: 2017-12-26 09:56:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/964602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/galaxysoup/pseuds/galaxysoup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel awakens in a forest with an empty feeling in his chest and a deep sense of dread.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Redemption Arc

**Author's Note:**

> WARNINGS: If you’re sensitive to being triggered, Castiel does describe Metatron taking his Grace with language that is reminiscent of sexual assault. It’s very brief and not gratuitous, but it’s there. Also, there are a few descriptions of warfare in here that might get a little intense. Also also, spoilers for the end of Season 8.  
> AUTHOR’S NOTE: I thought Naomi’s implication in _The Great Escapist_ that Castiel has been disobeying Heaven for pretty much his entire existence was really interesting and worth exploring, maybe in a one-shot or a missing scene or something. Then I sat down at the computer and vomited up 24k words. Apparently at some point it grew an actual plot? I don’t even know.
> 
> As always, if I've mishandled anything _please_ let me know.

Castiel awakens in a forest with an empty feeling in his chest and a deep sense of dread. His head feels simultaneously fuzzy and over-full and his entire body aches.

Memories flood back - Naomi’s warning, Dean and Sam and the trials to close Hell. The resulting burst of adrenaline gets him to his feet. It would appear that Naomi was, for once, telling the truth, and he must find the Winchesters before they complete the trials and Sam dies. He reaches for the Earth’s gravitational field and prepares to - 

He does not know where he is.

_He does not know where he is._

He cannot feel the position of the Earth and he cannot feel Heaven. This forest could be anywhere. Dean and Sam could be anywhere.

It is very difficult to breathe. He presses his hands to his chest and the emptiness there. Metatron and the angel sword. What is it about Metatron and the angel sword?

His Grace. Metatron _took his Grace_ , a violation so profound it almost distracts him from the realisation that there was no closing Heaven, it was all a lie, it was Metatron’s plan to - 

His heart in his mouth, Castiel begins to run. The trees overhead block out the sky and he must find a clear view. Surely not, surely Metatron would not be so vindictive as to cast the angels out. There are great changes needed in Heaven, it is true, but this is not the answer. There are innocents in Heaven, just as there are on Earth. Why would this ever be the answer?

Castiel enters a clearing and stumbles to a stop. The sky is alight with falling angels.

All the breath leaves Castiel’s lungs in one great rush. He has heard stories about the Fall of Lucifer and his supporters. It had been terrible and beautiful all at once, God’s wrath and God’s love for his creations manifested in full glory in a single moment.

There is no beauty to this. It is not God’s work any more than Castiel’s assault on Heaven had been God’s work. It is only destruction - spite and malice wrought large against an unsuspecting and unprepared Host and Castiel himself - Castiel had - he had only wanted to _help_ \- 

_”Yeah. You always do.”_

Castiel’s chest feels like it is being ripped asunder. He presses his hands to his ribcage and feels no wound, but the pain grows until he gasps with it. It feels like something is fighting to get out of him, like he has been seized by a divine storm and shaken. He cannot control the sounds being torn from him or the spasms that rock his body. His chest heaves and yet he feels like he is suffocating. He cannot stop, he cannot help, he can do nothing.

He falls to his knees. He cannot breathe and for a moment panic manages to overcome the pain and devastation. He watches the angels fall through eyes blurred by tears until lack of air darkens his vision and renders him unconscious.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When Castiel wakes again, the Fall is over. He lies in the dirt and stares up at the sky. It is dark and cold. He can feel no warmth from the stars and he can hear none of their songs.

He wonders if the other angels understand what has happened. He wonders if any of them have even survived.

He reaches for Dean’s soul, hopelessly, and feels nothing. He cannot hear Dean either. Dean prays frequently, probably more than he realises. The clearest ones are always _Cas, you got your ears on? We need you to get down here_ or something similar but there are others, too - the occasional _Dear Cas, give me strength, if Sammy keeps yapping I’m gonna smack him_ or _Cas, what the hell, how is this my job?_ In times of great danger Castiel will hear nothing but _Cas Cas Cas Cas Cas_ , a constant unconscious litany of entreaty or anger or horror depending on the situation.

There is nothing now. Even if Dean is still alive to pray Castiel can no longer hear him.

He heaves himself to his feet, hands over his ears to block out the roaring silence, and begins to walk. He does not know where he is but he needs to keep going. He must find a phone and call Dean. If the trial has not been completed then he needs to warn them that Sam’s life is in danger. If the trial _has_ been completed then Dean will need - Castiel will need to -

There will be nothing that Castiel can do for Dean. Not without his Grace.

_”You’re just a baby in a trenchcoat.”_

Castiel takes a deep breath and goes faster. All that matters now is reaching them in time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It is still dark when Castiel stumbles onto a dirt road that goes past a rundown filling station. He does not spare the darkened building or the dimly lit gas pumps a second glance. His entire being is focused on the pay phone at the edge of the station’s parking lot. He breaks into a run, scrambling to gather all the change he can find from his pockets, and bashes his shoulder into the plastic partition next to the phone when he cannot slow down in time. He pushes the coins through the slot with shaking fingers and dials Dean’s number.

“Hello?”

“Dean!” Castiel closes his eyes in relief. “Are you and Sam all right?”

There is a brief pause. “We’re fine,” Dean says finally, his tone neutral. 

‘Fine’, Castiel has discovered, covers many things, most of them not fine at all. He cannot tell by Dean’s tone if he is hurt, angry, upset, or in danger. Dean’s soul is closed to him. He presses his hand against his chest.

“Naomi was telling the truth,” he says. His throat feels tight. It’s hard to get the words out. “Do not finish the trial.”

“We didn’t,” Dean says, his tone still clipped. “Hell’s still open.” He sighs. “Look... we saw the angels fall. You okay?”

Castiel cannot tell if Dean is asking out of worry or just courtesy. Either way, Castiel is not okay. He is very far from okay. But his physical hurts are ignorable and the spiritual ones... Dean does not want to hear about the spiritual ones. Dean does not want to hear about another one of Castiel’s messes and Castiel does not deserve to tell him about them.

He feels suddenly, horribly, irreversibly alone.

“Cas,” Dean repeats, his tone sharper. “Are you okay?”

Castiel knows what answer is expected of him. He knows what Dean and Sam would say. 

“I’m fine,” he says, and his voice wavers. His throat aches. He has to tip his head back and press his hand against his eyes to keep them from watering. 

Dean is quiet for a long moment, and then he sighs explosively. “ _God._ All right. Where are you?”

“I am next to a pay phone,” Castiel manages, and winces. That’s the kind of answer that makes Dean angry. “It is next to a gas station,” he tries.

Dean swears. “Frigging great. Okay. I’ll call Charlie, see if she can trace -”

It is only the barest sound of footfalls on gravel that alerts Castiel to danger. He spins and ducks automatically, dropping the phone in surprise, and the rock in Gagiel’s hand glances off the side of his head instead of smashing his skull.

“Castiel!” she screams. “What have you done? _What have you done?”_

Castiel stumbles back and falls, knocked off-balance by the blow to the head. He can feel blood running down his face. 

Gagiel is on him immediately, raising the rock for another blow. Castiel rolls away and just barely manages to block her strike with his arm. He can hear Dean’s voice yelling from the phone’s dangling handset.

“Gagiel!” Castiel scrambles back, one hand out in supplication. “Gagiel, wait!”

“Give my Grace back!” Gagiel demands, sobbing, but at least there is space between them now. If he can get her to stop fighting long enough to talk - she is a Principality, a creature of peace and inspiration, preferring to watch over fishermen rather than be a warrior, but there is little about her that resembles that gentle being now. Her face is contorted with rage and grief. “Make it _stop!”_

“I can’t, Gagiel,” Castiel says softly. “I’m so sorry. It wasn’t - I didn’t -”

But he had. Not intentionally, not with malice, but he had let his need to atone and his relief at having orders to follow overwhelm his common sense. Once again, his pride has made him easy to manipulate.

Gagiel’s face twists. She screams at him in Enochian, calling down divine wrath and invoking the most terrible curses of their kind. If she had still been an angel, if Heaven had still been listening, Castiel would have been unmade in an instant. Instead, all he can do is apologize again.

Gagiel drops the rock and charges him. Castiel is a soldier but he is human now and Gagiel has not yet lost her angelic strength. She fights with fury and desperation and Castiel wants very much not to hurt her. 

She hurls him back against the pay phone, clawing at his face with her hands. He raises his arms to protect his head and she slams her fist into his stomach instead. Castiel falls to one knee, retching and wheezing with pain. Gagiel grabs his tie with both hands and wrenches it tight with all her strength, the fabric groaning under the strain.

Castiel’s air disappears and panic floods him. Eons of training take hold and he plants his foot, braces his shoulder, and rises up.

Gagiel goes flying. If she had been a warrior, if she had been trained, it might have been fine, but she was peaceful and is mortal and she lands hard and does not move.

Castiel crawls over to her. Her neck is broken. Her eyes are open.

His stomach wrenches painfully. Acid floods his mouth and sinuses and he convulses, choking and coughing and spitting phlegm and bile onto the dirt by Gagiel’s body. He falls back onto his hands, leaning as far away from Gagiel as he can but lacking the strength to pick himself up and move.

Gagiel stares back.

“Oh, sister,” Castiel whispers in Enochian. “Oh, sister. For your love and your faith I commend you to - to our Father’s keeping...”

The words feel hollow and ashen in his mouth. Would God want any of them? Does God’s keeping even exist any more? He remembers. He remembers a time when such things were certain. He remembers the first threads of uneasiness, after Lucifer’s Fall and God’s departure, when they realised that they could err so badly that God himself would turn his back in disdain. He remembers clinging to his orders, to obedience...

_There can be no more dissent. See to it, Naomi._

Castiel shudders. Gagiel’s eyes look right through him. She was good. She protected. She was obedient but still kind. She had been mostly ignored during the recent fighting but had offered sanctuary to all who needed it, regardless of the side.

And now she is dead twice over by Castiel’s hand. He cast her from Heaven and he shattered her bones. All of her knowledge, all of her love - the wisdom of a gentle creature eons in the making has been undone in an instant, here in a dusty parking lot on a forgotten corner of a tiny planet. It is not just. It is not right.

“Cas! What the hell -”

Who is Castiel to survive where she does not? Who is she to be punished while Castiel rises again and again and causes greater destruction with every return? There is no sense to it. 

_You are living in a Godless universe._

“Cas. _Cas._ ” Dean crouches down, pulling Castiel’s mangled tie loose and dropping it to one side. Castiel had not even heard the Impala arrive. How long has he been sitting here? “Hey. Can you stand?”

“She was just frightened,” Castiel says hollowly. He can’t seem to look at Dean. “I didn’t mean to hurt her. I don’t, I don’t understand. Why. I don’t understand _why_.”

Dean’s head bows and for a moment he looks small and tired. He seems dimmer without Castiel’s angelic vision - reduced to being just a man, with no uncommon strengths or abilities.

Then he straightens and grabs Castiel’s chin in his hand, forcing Castiel’s eyes to meet his.

“Look. I’ve got Sam in the car and I don’t know if he’s gonna be okay. I cannot have you taking the bus to Crazytown on me right now, Cas. Get up and hold it together. Do you hear me?”

An order. He knows what to do with an order, and by this point doing whatever he can to help Dean has transcended instinct and become simple fact anyway. 

“Yes, Dean. I hear you.”

Dean has to help him stand and he keeps a firm hold of the back of Castiel’s overcoat as they walk to the Impala, but Castiel manages not to lean on him too much. The last thing he sees as they pull out onto the road is Jimmy’s blue tie lying discarded in the dirt like a second corpse.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

They drive in silence. Sam is slumped in the passenger seat and appears to be wavering in and out of consciousness. Castiel tries twice to speak, whether to offer explanation or apology he is not certain, but Dean cuts him off sharply both times.

Eventually, wary of Dean’s displeasure, Castiel quietly slides his hand through the gap between the passenger seat and the side of the car and rests it on Sam’s shoulder. The touch tells him nothing about Sam’s condition except that Sam’s temperature is elevated, but after a moment Sam silently reaches up and covers Castiel’s hand with his own. Something in Castiel’s chest loosens just a fraction.

They reach the bunker in the early hours of the morning. Dean half-carries Sam inside and heads immediately for the sleeping quarters, telling Castiel over his shoulder to stay put and not break anything.

Castiel freezes obediently and stands in the center of the atrium, his shoulders hunched. Dean pauses at the door, Sam leaning heavily against him.

“There’s a med kit in the bathroom on the left. You should clean yourself up a little,” he says, and it feels like a kindness even though it’s probably just a practicality. 

When he reaches the bathroom Castiel can see why Dean mentioned it. There is a good deal of blood on his face from the blow to the head and there are several bloody gouges from Gagiel’s fingernails as well. His shirt and the collar of his overcoat are dirty. He washes away the blood with Jimmy’s handkerchief - carefully recreated every time he has had to rebuild his physical appearance - and meticulously inspects the instructions on the bottle of antiseptic before applying it. It stings.

He puts everything away and tidies the bathroom before he leaves. He hesitates for a moment in the doorway, torn between following Dean’s instructions and going to see if Dean and Sam need any help, and then remembers that he won’t be of any help without his Grace.

He heads for the atrium. On his way he passes the library. Kevin Tran is seated at one of the tables, head down on a stack of books. He appears to be asleep, and for a moment the thought of sitting down opposite him and resting his head on the table is so tempting that Castiel almost gives in.

“Get up and hold it together,” he reminds himself aloud, and goes back to stand in the atrium.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Dean does not reappear for quite some time, and when he does he looks worn and upset. He passes Castiel on the way to the kitchen with a “Dude, you going to stand there all day?” and then vanishes back into the living quarters carrying water and food. Castiel hopes this means that Sam feels well enough to eat, but is wary of going to find out without permission.

He hesitates for a moment after Dean has gone, and then decides that Dean’s comment was probably an indicator that he should find somewhere else to put himself for the time being. Kevin is still in the library, awake this time, but Castiel slips past the door without drawing attention to himself. The prophet appears to be engrossed in his translation, and the last time Castiel spoke to him he had had to be quite harsh. It is probably prudent to avoid conversation for a while.

He ends up in the oldest section of the archives, a dimly-lit room crowded with file boxes and the smell of old paper. Most of the labels are written in cuneiform, and Castiel spends a few minutes reading them. It has been a long time since he last had the opportunity to use his knowledge of ancient human alphabets, and it is reassuring to find that the knowledge has not vanished with his Grace. 

He is very tempted to begin looking through the records themselves but he restrains himself and sits down on the floor of the room instead, his back against the end of one of the shelves.

The urge to leave the bunker is very great. He wants to find out what is happening. He wants to help any angels who have survived and he wants to fix what he has done. He wants to find Metatron and kill him.

Guilt and the memory of Gagiel’s reaction hold him frozen. All of Heaven knows him by his angelic and human appearances and the likelihood of any angel he manages to find becoming violent is far higher than the likelihood of them accepting his help. As attractive as the idea of punishment for his mistakes is, he has caused too much destruction already by trying to atone. With each resurrection he has made things worse and worse and the possibility that he could still cause the situation to deteriorate further makes him feel cold and nauseous.

No. It is better that he remain still, for now, and become as small as possible. Thus far Dean and Sam have been remarkably tolerant of his presence, especially given how matters have deteriorated between them in the past few… years, really, and he has no desire to make a nuisance of himself. 

Sometimes Castiel thinks the last time they were all truly friends was just before Lucifer smote him for buying Dean his five minutes to negotiate with Sam. Next had come the horrible year of the Civil War, which looms large in his memory and threatens to taint his every memory of the Winchesters and Bobby Singer, and then insanity and Purgatory and Naomi’s brainwashing and so many other awful things. 

The Civil War, though, had been the turning point.

He had underestimated the depth of the Winchesters’ revulsion for Crowley and he had overestimated the amount of trust they might place in him and that, he thinks, was probably the crux of the problem. By the end of the year, by the time Dean and Sam and Bobby had declared him an enemy and he’d become cracked and beaten by every compromise he’d had to make and every killing he’d had to commit, he had felt so dead inside that it was momentum more than anything else that kept him going towards his goals. It was a bad condition in which to first take on an inadvisable amount of power, and then to wage an internal battle against the massed forces of the Leviathan. Any good commander knows not to send a soldier with a death wish on anything but a suicide mission.

Even in such a state, and with the poison of the Leviathan already at work inside him, it had still hurt terribly when a desperate Dean had said “We were family once.” 

In retrospect, perhaps underestimating the depth of his own feelings for the Winchesters had been the biggest problem of all.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Castiel is not sure how long he remains in the archives. He sits and thinks for a long while, going over his transgressions and worrying about the consequences of Metatron’s spell. Eventually his human body reaches the limits of its usefulness and he curls up on the floor, head pillowed on one arm, and tries to sleep. He wakes some indeterminate amount of time later, chilled and aching, his mind buzzing from the aftermath of his dreams. His body is requesting food and water.

He dithers for a long moment, torn between venturing out into the bunker and remaining where he is. On the one hand, Dean is certainly angry with him and Sam may be as well, and they would probably not appreciate seeing him. On the other, they would probably be annoyed if he let his body’s condition deteriorate to the point that he required intervention.

He leaves the archives. The bunker has no windows and it is impossible to tell what time it is without being able to feel the position of the solar system, but the atrium and kitchen are dark and quiet. It _feels_ like night. Castiel hastily consumes a moderate amount of food and water and returns to the archives without seeing anyone.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The next time Castiel ventures upstairs, fresh from a dream in which he was surrounded by sand and blood and desperation and knew that he had caused it all himself, Kevin is in the kitchen. He glances over and sees Castiel before Castiel can decide whether to flee or stay and says “Oh, you _are_ here.”

“Yes,” Castiel says.

The prophet shrugs. “Leftovers in the pot on the stove if you’re hungry.”

The pot contains soup which tastes faintly of aluminum but is hot and filling. Dean walks in just as Castiel is finishing.

“I would have thought you’d skip town by now,” he says, going to the refrigerator without looking at Castiel.

Castiel looks at the floor. He does not have anywhere to go. Staying here is terrible but leaving scares him. If Dean makes him go he doesn’t know what he’ll do. He is very aware of the fact that he does not know how to survive in this world without his Grace to provide for him. 

“How is Sam?” He asks tentatively.

Dean does not answer for a very long time. Castiel’s muscles are tense, as if he is bracing for a blow, and he cannot seem to calm them.

“His fever’s down a little,” Dean says finally.

“Is there anything I can do to be helpful?”

“Think we’ve had enough of your help,” Dean says brusquely.

Castiel wishes he could feel angry. He has saved the Winchesters time and time again, often at great cost to himself and others, and to have all that suffering thrown in his face should make him rage and cry ‘Unfair!’.

Instead a great weight seems to settle upon him. He washes his bowl in a fog and stumbles back down to the archives.

_You spineless, soulless son of a bitch. What do you care about dying? You’re already dead._

_It’s Armageddon, Cas, you need a bigger word than ‘sorry’!_

_What a peculiar thing you are._

He falls against the shelf and slides down to the ground, resting his head on his knees. He feels buried under the weight of his memory, crushed beneath tides of disappointment and anger.

_I thought angels were supposed to be guardians, not dicks._

_We must take action. We cannot survive another Morningstar!_

_You’re not the most subtle tool in the shed, are you?_

He feels sick. He feels sick. It is too much, there is too much in his head and it threatens to drown him. There must be good memories in there somewhere, things that he has done correctly, but they are lost to him. All that is left is pain.

_Freedom is a length of rope. God wants you to hang yourself with it._

_There’s not a speck of angel in you, is there?_

_When Castiel first laid a hand on you in Hell he was lost._

It is too quiet in the bunker and too loud in his head. He puts his arms over his head and prays for nothingness.

_You have never done what you were told. Not completely._

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Castiel cannot say how much time passes between seeing Dean in the kitchen and Sam coming to find him. He becomes aware of Sam’s approach in enough time to pick himself up off the floor and pretend to be studying the shelf labels, some vestige of pride still strong enough to fight its way through his apathy and racing thoughts, but standing up makes him feel dizzy and sick.

He does not see Sam’s expression when he first enters the room, as his relief at realizing Sam is alive and upright has made him lightheaded, but Sam’s voice is gentle when he invites Castiel upstairs for lunch. Castiel accepts because it takes fewer words than declining.

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better, Sam,” he says as they walk. He has always found Sam to be both easier and harder to understand than his brother; Sam usually makes an effort to explain himself to Castiel, which is very kind, but Castiel has never been able to see Sam’s soul the way he has been able to see Dean’s since raising him from Perdition. It’s yet another item in a long list of things that should have served as a warning to Castiel, and did not.

“I do feel a lot better,” Sam says. “I still get tired really easily and I’ve got a cough I can’t quite shake, but we’re pretty sure it’s just a matter of time at this point.”

That is very good news and Castiel manages a genuine smile in response. He is also relieved to find that being around Sam drowns out the memories somewhat.

And then he walks into the kitchen and belatedly realises that ‘Have lunch with us’ means ‘Have lunch with me _and Dean_ ’ and stops short.

Dean looks up as he enters. A series of emotions crosses his face too quickly for Castiel to interpret - there’s surprise, certainly, and something harder - and then he slides a plate of food across the table and says gruffly “Guess you’d better sit down.”

Castiel sits. He does not feel particularly hungry but he manages to eat most of what’s on his plate while Dean and Sam make idle conversation, and then finishes the extra food that Dean puts on his plate as well. It is oddly soothing and Castiel has managed to relax quite a bit when Sam stops suddenly in the middle of a debate with Dean and says “Where are you sleeping, Cas? You picked a room, right?”

Castiel has been sleeping on the floor and the archive is definitely a room, but he is fairly certain that is not what Sam means. Perhaps he was not supposed to be in the archives at all. Perhaps he was supposed to be in a different room this whole time.

“You didn’t give him a room?” Sam says when Castiel doesn’t answer in time, giving Dean a narrow-eyed look.

“I was preoccupied with hauling your consumptive ass out of danger, Typhoid Mary,” Dean complains, rolling his eyes.

Sam rolls his eyes right back. “Come on, Cas, let’s go get you settled.”

“Ah!” Dean shouts. “Sit! You stay there. Cas, go pick a bedroom.”

“I’m not going to break if I walk down the hallway!” Sam snaps, and it devolves from there into bickering so Castiel leaves to find a bedroom on his own.

He’s sitting in it later wondering vaguely what he’s supposed to do with it next when Sam comes to find him.

“You need sheets,” Sam says, and then frowns. “You don’t have any other clothes, do you?”

Castiel tugs self-consciously at his overcoat. He misses his tie. “These are sufficient.”

Sam’s mouth twitches. “Sorry, Cas. Now that you’re human you’re going to have to do laundry.” He wrinkles his nose. “And you’re going to have to shower.”

Castiel hunches his shoulders. Being human is tedious. No sooner has he eaten and slept than he is required to do it again. He’d forgotten about washing. “Are you supposed to be walking around?” he asks.

Sam refuses to be detoured. “I’m going to put a shopping list up on the refrigerator for the next time someone goes into town, so write down anything you need. You can just use whatever’s in the bathroom until then.”

Castiel nods. 

Sam watches him.

“I suppose I’ll go do that now, then,” Castiel says when Sam shows no sign of leaving.

“Great!” Sam says brightly. “I’ll find you some clothes.”

Showering is a nerve-wracking experience. When Castiel had become human before, it had been due to his Grace ebbing rather than it leaving entirely and things like this had not been an issue. He had needed sleep and sustenance (and had had to deal with the eventual biological consequences of consuming food, which he had found to be unpleasant), but many of his angelic attributes had remained albeit in an extremely lessened way. One of those had been his resistance to human dirtiness.

Now he is confronted with a bewildering array of bottles and lumps of soap. An inspection of the labels reveals that some are meant for the body and some for the hair, and those meant for the hair come in ‘shampoo’ and ‘conditioner’. Eventually he chooses based on which one smells the most pleasing and does his best to follow the directions printed on the bottles. 

He is startled to find that in addition to the bruises from his fight with Gagiel his human body bears scars. The wound from the extraction of the angel tablet and the angel-banishing sigil he’d carved into himself all those years before are the most prominent among them, but there are numerous other marks from various skirmishes and battles as well. It is unsettling to have his history written so clearly upon him.

The application of hot water and soap does make him feel better, at least until he attempts shaving. That does not go well.

There are clothes in his room when he returns from the shower. He is exhausted and very tempted to retreat to the archives again once he is clothed, but he remembers Sam’s instructions about the shopping list and forces himself to go upstairs. The list is in place, just as Sam said, and Castiel painstakingly adds ‘soap’ and ‘clothing’ to the end of it.

“Nice job shaving,” Sam says from where he stands by the counter, the corner of his mouth twitching.

“Hey, is that my shirt?” Dean asks indignantly.

Castiel considers his clothing. “That is possible.”

“My stuff would be too big,” Sam says. “If it bothers you get him something else.”

“Fine,” Dean says. “We need to make a run into town anyway. You can go to Goodwill while I hit the grocery store.”

“I’m just not sure I feel strong enough for errands,” Sam says. Castiel finds his innocent tone to be highly suspicious. “Why don’t you take Cas, show him how to pick stuff out for himself?”

Castiel experiences panic. He does not want to leave the bunker and he is not sanguine about the results of spending time alone with Dean. Dean does not look enthusiastic either. 

“I’m sure anything Dean gets will be fine,” Castiel says hastily. Sam frowns. Castiel flees for the archives, which was a lot easier when he was an angel. It feels significantly more awkward to simply walk away.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

When Castiel ventures out of the archives that evening there is a messy pile of clothing on the foot of his bed along with a note from Dean telling him to do his own damn laundry next time. Castiel moves the pile to the top of his desk and spends several minutes puzzling over the mechanics of bedmaking. By the time the sheets, blanket, and pillow are in some semblance of order he is so tired he barely has the energy to remove his shoes before crawling into bed.

That night he dreams of the desert again, his greater fatigue lending further details to the landscape. There is a city in the desert built of mud bricks and Castiel moves through the walls of it undetected. He is aware of other angels around him.

He stops in front of a child, asleep in a small nest of blankets. He can see the baby’s soul, glowing warmly and peacefully in the night, and then he raises his sword and plunges it down.

There is screaming. In the houses all around him he can feel other souls departing their earthly bodies. There seems to be blood everywhere - on blankets, on swaddling clothes, on doorways and desperate parents. Castiel moves from house to house, extinguishing tiny soul after tiny soul and he wants to scream, he wants to stop, but his body moves ahead without him.

He raises his sword, and the child wakes and looks at him. There is no fear in her dark, gentle eyes, just curiosity, and Castiel cannot move. This is his Father’s creation and she is beautiful. The thought of destroying this tiny life, this miracle of cells and emotions and possibilities, makes him feel sick. Surely he can be merciful. Surely an act of love would be permitted.

He gathers the child up and flees, from the city and the blood and the night and out into the clear spaces of the desert. The child begins to cry, her soul fluttering against his fingertips. Castiel is pursued. He flies to mountain tops, to rivers, to seasides and jungles. The child clings to him but he is surrounded. He cannot hold her. She slips through his grasp and all he can feel is souls departing. There is death and blood and sand everywhere he can see and there is something else, something more terrible, just behind him no matter which way he turns - 

Castiel wakes gasping, his face wet with tears. He sleeps no more that night.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It takes a while for Castiel to regain his equilibrium after the nightmare. By the time he forces himself to assemble his new clothing - sans his overcoat, which has mysteriously vanished - and go upstairs Dean and Sam have already risen and are finishing their breakfasts. Sam takes one look at Castiel and spits out his coffee, which strikes Castiel as unhygienic.

“Very mature, Dean,” Sam says, glaring.

Dean snickers into his own coffee. Tired and still unsettled by his night, Castiel reviews the lettering on his shirt and says somewhat testily “You find the dichotomy of self as it progresses from internal to external to be inappropriate, Sam?”

They both give him variations of the look that he has in the past determined to mean that they understand the words he is saying but do not grasp the meaning. Castiel sighs. “The ‘I’ represents the internal self, or the soul. The heart shape represents the physical body. ‘Boobies’ represents the external self as it is seen by others. It’s a simplistic reminder of the dichotomy of self as it progresses from internal to external. Am I wrong?”

“It’s just impossible to prank you, isn’t it,” Dean says. He appears to be irritated.

“This was supposed to embarrass me,” Castiel realises. It makes sense, in retrospect. Dean is upset with him and this joke was intended to give him a feeling of triumph at Castiel’s expense, but Castiel has ruined it. “I... am not certain about the color?” He tries.

Dean makes a huffing sound and stalks off with his coffee. Castiel feels his shoulders slump.

“Just give him time,” Sam says. “I’ll look through what he got you and make sure there aren’t any other surprises.”

“Thank you, that would be helpful,” Castiel says. He will make sure to be embarrassed the next time and perhaps that will help.

“Hey,” Sam says, “Garth asked me to do some research for a salt-and-burn in Skokie. You want to help?”

The rest of the morning passes peacefully. Finding objects at human speed is tiresome, but the activity keeps Castiel’s mind from turning on him and that is welcome. Sam sends Castiel down to the archives for information about Skokie in 1897, and when he has located that Sam requests anything he can find on the Tughlaq dynasty of northern India. Castiel suspects he is being deliberately kept busy, a suspicion which is borne out by the fact that whenever he returns from the archives with resources Dean and Sam abruptly either stop talking or change the subject until he leaves again.

He hopes they are looking into the plight of the fallen angels or the consequences of Metatron’s spell, but he cannot bring himself to ask. If they are, they clearly do not want him to be involved, and if they are not he does not want to come across as demanding, or, even worse, to accidentally start off something awful.

Resolutely setting these thoughts aside, Castiel turns back to the shelves and pulls out a collection of scholarly articles on the Golden Horde. They were contemporaries of the Tughlaq dynasty and, if memory serves, invaded India as 

_The soldiers enter the city in a wave. Castiel rides with them. He has been assigned to accompany them on their glorious destiny and help out where he can. He has already healed their leader of fatal injuries, although the man remains moderately disfigured._

_The people of the city do not welcome their conquerors. They rebel, and the soldiers are brutal in their retaliation. Castiel stares in horror at decapitated bodies and soldiers building towers out of bloody heads, barely visible through the crowds and crowds of silent reapers. This is not glorious. This cannot be God’s work._

_The soldiers have found more of the city’s inhabitants. They advance with swords held high. Castiel sees a small boy pick up a rock and push his brother behind him, staring the soldiers down defiantly._

_Castiel’s orders are to protect the soldiers and their leader. He cannot. He cannot believe that this is just. He steps between the soldiers and their intended victims. He does not care what his orders are, he will witness no more pointless carnage in the name of vanity and bloodlust. He raises his hands high and prepares to open the earth beneath the feet of the soldiers, to bring the city’s walls crashing down on them -_

_“I told you it wouldn’t work. He’s too flawed.”_

_“Patience. If I can fix this one then I can fix any angel.”_

Castiel drops the articles and staggers against the shelves, sweating and gasping for breath. That had felt like a memory, but it’s impossible. No angel was on Earth at that time. It was forbidden. And what would Castiel have even been doing there, in a military situation but without his garrison? It makes no sense.

He presses his hand to his forehead. At the end of the memory, there had been something else. Voices. It distresses him.

He grabs a file off the shelf at random and skims through it, but learns nothing except that the Men of Letters harbored deep suspicions about the sinking of the Titanic. A battered volume on the disappearance of the Anasazi likewise produces no results. In his haste he knocks a folder of photographs loose and they spill across the floor. He bends to pick them 

_There are too many people. They are crammed into crumbling houses and tiny apartments. There is not enough space, not enough food, almost no medicine whatsoever. Castiel sees hollow-eyed children and gaunt adults, feral dogs and starving rats, overlaid with the dull tang of misery. He walks silently through the streets and watches the mass of humanity around him._

_He slips between ancient plaster and splintering lath and sees rooms upon rooms - dim, crowded, bare. Here and there he sees flashes of color - a child’s red hat, a skein of blue wool, a magazine cover pinned neatly to a wall._

_His mission here is to observe only, and so he catalogs these details with care. The longer he looks the more he can see glimmers of light beneath the oppressive darkness of despair - homemade toys for the children, fantastic stories told by the elderly, tiny constellations of love and dignity passed from person to person and family to family as it becomes apparent that someone is in need. It is beauty, well-hidden and all the more precious for it, and Castiel marvels at the layers in his Father’s world._

_He finds a mother asleep in a rickety bed. In the past she has mended her children’s clothes with tiny stitches in the shapes of flowers and animals but now she lies still. Her children are quiet and frightened. Castiel does not even hesitate before extending his hand and soothing away her fever, grateful that he has been given the opportunity and the ability to offer such a small -_

_“You were told to observe only, angel. What do you think you’re doing?”_

_“I provided comfort. It was a small thing. No one saw me and we are supposed to be their guardians -”_

_“Watch, angel!”_

_Soldiers flood into the streets. Bullets pass through thin tenement walls as if they were paper. The inhabitants of the tiny apartments die and die and die. Now Castiel can see the rest of the picture. He can see tanks and airplanes and country upon country battling to the death. He can see grim barracks full of living skeletons and showers filled with poisonous gas._

_“We are to watch and not interfere. Do you understand?”_

_Castiel burns to help, to intervene, to do what he can to alleviate the horror. The destruction is horrific, the loss of life and history and art obscene._

_His mouth says “I understand. I will not transgress again.”_

_“I’m very glad to hear that.”_

Castiel makes it to the metal trash can in the corner just in time to avoid soiling the papers scattered across the floor. He heaves until his stomach is long past empty.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

He huddles there on the floor for a long time before the shaking begins to ease and he can start to clean up the mess he made. He scoops up the photographs and the journals, averting his eyes as much as possible so he won’t inadvertently trigger another memory, and then removes the liner from the trashcan and disposes of it.

His thoughts are buzzing. He is not sure, yet, where the snatches of conversation he has remembered fit in, but it seems clear that whatever alterations Naomi has made to his brain are beginning to deteriorate. It’s a bit like Sam’s hell wall, he supposes, and the symmetry of that does not escape him. He is at once both terribly afraid and desperately curious. What atrocities has he committed unaware? Are there any more hidden commands like the one to kill Dean?

“Hey, Cas!” Dean shouts down from the top of the stairs. “You die down there or what?”

“I am unharmed,” Castiel calls back. He’s physically unharmed, at least, and the mental ramifications aren’t quantifiable yet. _Get up and hold it together._ He grabs the scholarly articles on the Golden Horde without glancing through them and heads upstairs.

“I’m not certain these will help,” he says, handing them over. “The Tughlaq dynasty does not appear to be well represented in the archives.”

“Oh!” Sam says. “Right. I’m sure it will be fine. Are you feeling okay? You look kind of pale.”

Castiel gives Sam one of his blandest looks. “My skin pigment has not changed.”

“Uh-huh,” Dean says slowly. “Okay then. Cas, Kevin says he needs to look at some stuff in the Kansas State library, so we’re going to go along and keep an eye on him.”

“We should only be gone for a few days,” Sam promises.

“I have been alive since before your species discovered calendars,” Castiel says drily. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

They don’t look terribly reassured. “We’ll keep our phones charged,” Sam says. “There should be plenty of food in the kitchen. I’ll put some emergency numbers in your phone in case you need to - wait. Damn, we should have gotten you a phone. Okay, I’ll write them out, I think the bunker has a land line that works.”

“Wanna put some newspaper down for him too?” Dean mutters. Sam gives him an annoyed look.

“I’ll be fine,” Castiel repeats, more slowly in case they had trouble understanding him the first time. Dean’s indifference hurts him, but in truth he is grateful that they will be gone for a little while. The possibility that Naomi has left behind something that might endanger Dean and Sam renders him choiceless. Whether he wants to or not, he must try to uncover as much as he can about her interventions, and it will be much easier to do it if he isn’t trying to keep up a facade of normality for the Winchesters at the same time.

Dean, Sam, and Kevin depart later in the afternoon. Castiel sits patiently upstairs for precisely an hour, just to be sure they won’t return unexpectedly, and then goes down to his room. If he is to sort through these memories, he will need a way to organize them. A timeline seems most sensible, but given his long existence he will need a good deal of space for it.

His room is, fortunately, mostly bare of furniture. He moves the bed, desk, and small bookshelf into the center of the room, clearing his access to the walls. From the supply room upstairs he retrieves a permanent marker and paint in several different colors and from the library he gathers as many history books as he can carry.

He draws a line at eye-level all the way around the room, interrupted by the door. At the beginning he writes ‘Creation’ and at the end he writes ‘Fall’. Those two things are certain, so he circles them in white paint.

He steps back and considers his work. It seems reasonable to assume that the most confusing events will occur after his introduction to the Winchesters, so he allocates himself an entire wall between ‘Raised Dean from Perdition’ and ‘Fall’. It means the timeline will not be to scale, but that is a secondary concern.

Now it is time for the unpleasant part. He picks up a history book. The more memories he is able to trigger, the more gaps will be filled in, and hopefully a greater picture will emerge. Hopefully once one wall begins to crumble, the others will follow.

Hopefully, he will still be able to hold it together by the end. He takes a deep breath and opens the book.

Time fades as he works. Some of the memories are terrible and leave him choking and gasping on the floor, waiting for his hands to be steady enough to write. Some fill him with anger or shame.

Many of them are confusing. He suspects Zachariah’s involvement.

“Cas? Are you down here?”

Castiel looks up in surprise as Sam comes in through the door. He is not sure how long it has been since Dean and Sam left, but he had not expected them back so quickly. Sam stops and stares at the room, then leans back into the hallway and yells “DEAN!”

Dean enters at a run a moment later, gun in one hand and knife in the other. He stops just short of the bed and turns in a circle, eyes on the timeline, and then gives Castiel an affronted look and says “I thought I said no bus to Crazytown!”

Castiel can understand why he would come to that conclusion - the timeline is somewhat messy in places and Castiel has absent-mindedly ended up with a good deal of paint on his person - but the statement is still extremely irritating. He scowls. “This is not Crazytown. I have gotten up and held it together. This is logic.”

“ _Okay_ ,” Sam says, eyeing them both. “Dean, how about you put away the weapons and Cas, you can explain this to us?” He surveys the wall and shakes his head. “Oh my God, your handwriting has serifs. Of course it does. Have you slept at all since we left?”

Castiel frowns. “No. I had a task to finish.”

“Right,” Sam says slowly. “Then how about you sit down before you pass out, and - here.” He digs something out of his bag. “I’m just going to assume you need to eat this.”

Castiel looks down at it. It is half a sandwich and a mostly-full bottle of poisonously yellow-green liquid. “Is this edible?”

“It’s fine. It’s a sports drink.” Sam opens the bottle and takes a sip. “See? Now you try some.”

In the past Sam has willingly drunk demon blood, so Castiel is unconvinced. Still, a gesture of trust would probably not go amiss. He takes a sip. Sam smiles encouragingly.

“Great, now how about the wall of crazy?” Dean says impatiently. He has put away his weapons, though, which Castiel takes to be a good sign.

“When I was on the run with the angel tablet, Naomi implied that she had made a practice of modifying my behavior and erasing events from my memory,” Castiel explains. “Since her death - or because I am now human, I’m not sure - those events have begun to return to me.” He gestures to the timeline. “This is my attempt to put them in order.”

Sam frowns and taps the wall next to ‘Belgian Congo, 1889’. “I thought you said angels hadn’t walked the earth since Biblical times.”

Castiel sighs. “Strictly speaking, that is still accurate. I believe Naomi used me to test her control methods. Since I consistently responded to others in distress, I could be sent to particularly horrific events on Earth with orders not to interfere and the efficacy of her programming would then be easy to assess.” Dean and Sam are both staring at him now. “So, you see, angels did not walk the earth. _One_ angel did.”

“Wait,” Dean says slowly. “Why was that even - why?”

Castiel shrugs. “I assume I was the first angel to disobey after Lucifer’s Fall and was therefore the most practical candidate for experimentation. Lucifer’s Fall and God’s departure must have made the Archangels very nervous. It would have been easy for Naomi to convince Michael of her plan.” He frowns down at the sandwich. It has stringy things in it. “What are these?”

“They’re called sprouts,” Sam says. His tone is very strange.

“I dislike them.”

Dean makes an odd noise that is somewhere between a laugh and a groan. “Pick them out, then. She did this to you a lot?’

“Many times,” Castiel says, concentrating on removing the terrible sprouts. “I have remembered a good deal but there may be more. I think she found my recidivism rate to be exceptionally vexing. I have a crack in my chassis.”

“‘Too much heart was always his problem’,” Dean says grimly, and shakes his head when Sam gives him a questioning look. He seems to have calmed somewhat, which is good, but Castiel is unfamiliar with interpreting Dean’s moods when he does not have access to Dean’s soul and cannot hear his prayers. Nothing is certain. 

“What do the different colors mean?” Sam asks.

“White is for things I am certain were real,” Castiel explains, his mouth full of sandwich. It is much better without the stringy things and his body does appreciate the sustenance. “Red is for things I am sure were simulations rather than real experiences. Yellow is for things I have been unable to corroborate through either recorded history or shared recollection.” It would be very helpful if Sam or Dean would offer to help with some of them, but he is unwilling to ask outright.

“‘Killed Dean 1,000 times’?” Sam reads, his voice incredulous. 

“The little squiggle means ‘approximately’,” Castiel corrects. “A thousand is the number Naomi used, but it may have been hyperbole. I am certain that was a simulation, however.”

They both look horrified. Castiel reviews that statement and realises that it was probably hurtfully blunt. His heart lurches as he realises what they must think of him for it. “I did not do it willingly,” he says anxiously. “I attempted to kill myself instead, but they never permitted it.” His heart sinks. He’d still given in eventually.

“We’re not mad at you,” Dean says hoarsely. 

Castiel doubts this, but he tries to smile. It does not appear to be effective.

“‘Den of Iniquity’?” Sam reads. He turns to Dean, obviously trying to lighten the mood. “Dude, what did you do?”

“Why do you assume it was - “ Dean’s head whips around. “Why is it in yellow? That definitely happened.”

“I remember several versions of it,” Castiel explains. That had been a particularly nasty surprise. “I believe Naomi was attempting to corrupt any memories I had that might compromise my loyalty to Heaven. I can be reasonably certain that the most positive version is closest to the correct one, but I don’t know for sure.”

“What’s the most positive version?” Sam asks. “Wait, never mind. I can probably guess.”

“Dean laughed in the parking lot,” Castiel says. “It was nice.”

Sam’s expression goes very strange for a moment. Dean is still turned towards the timeline and Castiel can’t see him. He has no input to work with.

“Dean?” He asks warily. “Was that what happened?”

“Yeah,” Dean says. “Yeah. I laughed. It was a good memory. Cas, _Jesus_. Your bosses sucked. This is - _fuck_.” He rubs a hand over his hair. Castiel waits patiently for him to assemble a complete sentence. “Is this what’s been going on in your head this whole time?”

‘This whole time’ is fairly imprecise, but Castiel is reasonably sure he knows what Dean means. “Yes.”

“Okay. Okay, you have to _tell us_ this shit, Cas!”

“You’re angry,” Castiel says cautiously. He glances towards Sam. Sam looks angry too. His heart sinks.

“Yes, I’m fucking angry!” Dean explodes, and then makes a visible effort to control himself. “But not at you. Okay? Not for this, anyway. Just... tell us from now on if something like this is happening. Promise?”

That is reasonable. Many of the unfortunate episodes in their shared past have been made much worse by silence or outright lies. “Promise,” Castiel repeats, and Dean’s shoulders relax a little. “If it helps, Naomi is dead.”

“It doesn’t help if I didn’t get to kill her,” Dean snaps.

“It was an appropriate death,” Castiel says, shrugging. “Metatron stabbed her in the head with one of the implements she used to re-educate us.”

“All right, it helps a little,” Dean concedes.

Castiel nods, satisfied. The combination of sitting down for a little while and having something to eat and drink has caused his body to succumb to tiredness. He pushes enough of the history books out of the way to clear a spot on the bed and lies down. “I will answer more questions later.”

“Okay, Cas,” Sam says, amused. “We’ll just let you get to sleep, then.”

“Thank you,” Castiel says, his eyes already closed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Castiel sleeps for what feels like a very long time, and it is blissfully disturbance-free. When he awakens, he discovers that someone thoughtfully moved the rest of the books off his bed and draped a blanket over him. He gathers it around his shoulders as he sits up. It is not the same as his overcoat, but it’s still nice.

He wanders out into the bunker. No one appears to be around, and he doesn’t feel like going back down to the living quarters. He curls up in one of the library chairs and goes back to sleep.

When he wakes for the second time it is to find that someone has covered him in sticky notes and balanced a paperweight on his head, presumably for comedic purposes. He sets the paperweight to one side and gathers up as many of the sticky notes as he can before they fall off or get crumpled. He shrugs his blanket back into place and goes off to see where everyone is.

He finds them in the kitchen. Dean looks up from the stove and says “It’s alive!”

Castiel blinks at him, and then decides that this remark does not require a response. He leans against the counter and begins sticking the notes back into a pad.

“Sort of alive,” Sam says drily. “Cas, how are you feeling?”

Castiel considers this. The guilt and apprehension will doubtless return soon, but for the time being he feels... orderly.

“Fine,” he says, and then remembers his promise to be truthful. “For now.”

Dean pulls the sticky notes out of his hands and replaces them with a plate of food. “Good, because we have to take off again. Kevin wants something from the library at freaking _Yale_ so we’re gonna have to dust off our tweed and hit the road.”

Castiel nods and turns his attention to his food. Sam watches him for a moment and then says “Here, try this,” and squirts red sauce all over the plate.

Castiel hesitates. Sam sighs. “It’s better than the sprouts, I promise. Eggs and ketchup go well together.”

Castiel investigates and discovers that this is true.

“Okay,” Dean says, eyeing him. “I think it’s time to pull out the big guns.” He puts a mug down on the counter next to Castiel. “Down that and let us know when your brain’s finished rebooting.”

“Coffee,” Castiel says, pleased, abandoning his plate in favor of wrapping his hands around the mug and inhaling deeply. “I like coffee.”

“Who introduced you to coffee?” Dean asks suspiciously.

“When I was on the run from Naomi I couldn’t keep the table unless I ordered something,” Castiel explains. He takes a long sip and savors it. “This coffee is better.”

“Wait, what?” Sam says.

Castiel takes another sip. The coffee does appear to be effective. He feels much more _present_ now. “Hiding from the angels was impossible, so I masked my true location by flying rapidly from Biggerson’s to Biggerson’s. They have an identical layout and decor, so every time the angels tried to locate me I appeared to be in every restaurant at once.”

“That’s... really smart, actually,” Sam sounds impressed. “How did they catch you?”

Castiel stares down at his mug. “They murdered everyone in one of the restaurants and when I discovered it I remained stationary for too long.” There had been so much blood, and poor kind Kara with her eyes burnt out and her mind destroyed just to send him a message. He had not even been able to comfort her and he’d lost the angel tablet anyway.

The coffee is no longer reassuring. Castiel sets it back down. He can feel Dean and Sam looking at him and misses his old ability to vanish very much indeed. He has to make do with walking out and ignoring the call of “Cas?” behind him.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Dean finds him in his room some time later. Castiel is staring at his timeline, caught between melancholy and embarrassment for his behavior in the kitchen. Dean and Sam have enough to deal with without Castiel’s guilt and his blood-soaked past.

Dean stands next to him quietly, arms folded across his chest. It is several minutes before he speaks.

“You should have trusted us with the angel tablet and I’m still mad that you didn’t,” he says finally. “But I want you to know that I understand why you felt like you had to run with it.” He jerks his chin at the timeline. “Hell, I can’t believe you can trust anyone with anything if you’ve got all this crap bogging you down.”

“It helps that I trust myself least,” Castiel says. “Dean... I don’t know what you’re working on right now or if you’re planning anything, but you should remember to take my presence into account.”

Dean nods. “We’ll let you know if you can help.”

“You misunderstand me,” Castiel says, turning to look him in the eyes. “I have survived again against steep odds and I think experience has proven that my unlikely survival is rarely a herald of good tidings. You need to be aware of ways in which I may make the situation worse.”

Dean’s eyes narrow. “That’s crap, Cas. I’ve told you that before.”

“Nevertheless.”

Dean shakes his head angrily but he refrains from turning it into an argument. “I came down to say that Charlie’s going to stop by while we’re gone,” he says, no longer looking in Castiel’s direction. “Don’t do anything stupid.”

Castiel watches him go. Warning Dean had been necessary, he knows, but he deeply regrets ruining the moment of peace between them. He understands, now, why Meg had said she missed the apocalypse. The world had been in chaos and desperation had always been with them, but Dean and Sam had trusted him and he had still believed that things could be made right. He remembers that other Castiel, so distraught over his Father’s absence, and wishes he could go back and warn him that it could still get so much worse. He could still lose the friendship of Dean and Sam.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Charlie arrives shortly after Castiel has showered and just before he has managed to convince himself to try triggering more memories for his timeline. His human senses tell him only that she is small and bright and talkative, but she walks past the bunker’s wards and across the devils’ trap on the floor so it will probably be all right.

“Wow, I never thought I’d actually meet you,” she says, depositing bags of varying sizes against the wall of the atrium. “This is both very cool and _really_ intimidating. Dean wasn’t kidding about the laser stare, holy crap.” She gives him a nervous smile. “Hi, I’m Charlie, and I’m going to be your babysitter!”

Castiel experiences a moment of shocking panic. Although Dean laughing in the parking lot of the brothel is a very good memory, it had been preceded by more terror than Castiel is strictly comfortable with and he does not feel at all prepared to make use of any of the things he learned from the pizza man.

Before he can flee, Charlie holds up a plastic bag and says “I brought movies and snacks. Do you like chocolate or are you more of a popcorn fan? Dean just said to keep you from going all Beautiful Mind, he wasn’t super specific about what you like to do.”

Castiel rapidly re-evaluates the situation. “I don’t really know?” he hazards. As annoyed as he is that Dean seems to think he cannot be left unsupervised, he is warmed by the apparent concern and too relieved by the non-threatening reason for Charlie’s presence to care very much.

Charlie nods decisively. “I’ll captain this ship, then, I guess.” She hands him several of the bags and moves off to the library. Castiel has no other immediate tasks, so he follows.

Charlie deposits everything on the library table and begins briskly setting up equipment. She nods towards the plastic bag with the movies in it. “I’ll get this together, why don’t you look through there and pick a movie?”

There are a lot of movies. Castiel looks them over in bewilderment. None of them appear to be particularly useful. In fact, he’s fairly certain that most of them are completely fictional. He has no idea what criteria he is supposed to be using to come to a decision.

“Any ideas?” Charlie asks.

“Which one do you like best?” Castiel hedges.

Charlie taps her finger against her mouth thoughtfully. “We’d probably better start with something pretty light. How about the first _Harry Potter_? That’s a good one.”

Forty-five minutes later, Charlie stops _Harry Potter_. “Okay, that was a bad idea.”

“Phoenixes do not _have_ feathers,” Castiel says. The number of inaccuracies in the movie is astonishing and highly irresponsible. “None of the magic is being performed correctly and witches are never so benign. Is there sinister intent behind the inclusion of so many lies?”

“Whoa!” Charlie says. “No sinister intent! Put the smiting face away. It’s _fiction_ \- it’s written to be entertaining.”

This does not illuminate the situation to Castiel’s satisfaction. 

“Maybe something a little further afield will go better,” Charlie mutters. “Okay, this is called _Lord of the Rings_. Nothing in it is true and it doesn’t take place in our universe. Ready?”

Castiel does better with _Lord of the Rings_ and actually begins to understand what Charlie had said about entertainment, but then the appearance of the town of Bree triggers a memory of plague-ravaged London. That’s followed closely by a particularly nasty memory of the Crusades when the Black Riders show up, at which point an explanation of Castiel’s unique amnesia and a trip to see the timeline becomes necessary.

“Wow,” Charlie says, staring at the wall with wide eyes. “Angels really are douchebags. I thought Dean was just being, you know, himself.”

“Not all of them,” Castiel says sadly, putting a white circle around ‘Siege of Antioch, 1098’. “There were innocents in Heaven just as there are on Earth. Though not as many, I suppose,” he admits. “Much of this we brought upon ourselves with our inflexibility and our blind obedience, but... I do wonder, sometimes. We were _created_ to obey. To be absolute.”

“Have other angels ever fallen?” Charlie asks.

Castiel takes a deep breath. “Lucifer Fell for Pride, his followers for idolatry and misplaced loyalty. Anna Fell for curiosity and because she no longer trusted our superiors. Gabriel left in anger, Metatron in fear. Balthazar left… for his own reasons.”

“And you?” Charlie asks quietly. “I’m sorry if it’s rude to ask.”

“It’s not rude. I’ve Fallen many times,” Castiel says dully. “Mostly it was Pride.”

Charlie steps forward to run her fingers along the timeline. She stops between ‘Freed Dean from Zachariah’ and ‘Smote by Raphael’. “What about the first time?”

Castiel considers. That one had probably been his most complicated Fall. He’d been conflicted; suspicious of his superiors, worried for the humans and deeply uncertain about the Great Plan. He’s ashamed to admit it, but fresh from Naomi’s retraining and left to his own devices he probably would have hesitated for too long to be of any use. 

“Because Dean asked me to.”

Charlie gives him a surprised look. “You really think a lot of him, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Castiel says without hesitation. “I have… not proven worthy of the regard he once had for me, though.”

Charlie’s expression twists with sympathy. It makes Castiel uncomfortable. The friendly hand tucked into his is very nice, though, and it makes an unexpected warmth flood through him.

“Oh,” he says distantly, staring down at their linked hands. “I’d forgotten that humans required touch.”

Charlie’s eyes narrow. 

“All right,” she says. “New plan.”

Half an hour later they have collected pillows, bedding, and a spare mattress from various corners of the bunker and dragged it all into the library, where Charlie supervises the building of something she calls a ‘blanket fort’. Castiel withholds comment - the ‘blanket fort’ would be extremely difficult to defend in the event of an attack and in any case is made mostly of sheets - and obediently follows Charlie’s instructions to sit down and make himself comfortable. He lies back against a mound of pillows, and that in combination with the blankets overhead _is_ moderately pleasant.

Charlie puts a pillow down on his stomach, curls up against him, and rests her head on it. Castiel goes very still. The moment feels fragile and beautiful, like the thinnest film of ice on a pool of water. He can feel the warmth of her body and the rise and fall of her ribcage as she breathes and it is brought home to him, all at once, that even if he can no longer see the full scope of his Father’s masterpiece it still surrounds him.

“Okay,” Charlie says, apparently oblivious, “This is called _Star Wars_ \- the original theatrical release, which is very important. I think it’ll go over better than the others, but let me know if you don’t like it. It’s a classic, so it will give you some good pop culture references.” She presses play.

The movie is indeed enjoyable, and Castiel finds himself relaxing as the story progresses. He recognizes a few things that Dean or Meg have said over the years. They make a lot more sense now, as does the constant human practice of using items in the collective cultural consciousness as a sort of shorthand.

After the end of the movie Charlie is silent for a long moment. She has been fidgeting for most of the conclusion, so Castiel waits patiently until she comes to a decision.

“Hey, Cas?” she says quietly. “What do you miss most about being an angel?”

Castiel sucks in a breath. There is so much that for a moment he cannot think. 

“I miss mountains,” he says finally. “Not seeing them from a distance, but perching at the summit. I miss the bottom of the ocean and the insides of cells. I miss the sounds the stars used to make. I miss... being able to see. Humans see so little, hear so little - I used to be able to look at a person and know who they were and now all I see is eyes, hair, clothing, and I don’t understand what those are supposed to mean and it is so very _small_. The world is dark and silent where it used to be filled with color and music. I - I miss -”

He falters, and Charlie reaches over and takes his hand. He grips it tightly in return. “I miss being able to hear my siblings,” he said quietly. “They were flawed, yes, more flawed than any of us realised, but I have spent an eternity with them always there and it is so cold now. I prevented myself from hearing them once to punish myself and I couldn’t bear it and now I am forced - I cannot let myself think about it, because if I think about it I realise I am _trapped_ here and so much of my Father’s creation is forever denied to me and I can’t - I _can’t_ -”

Charlie pushes the pillow away and hugs him tightly, her head tucked under his chin. He feels her pulse flutter against his fingertips and his own heartbeat gradually slows in response as he matches his breathing with hers. He forces himself to pull back and become small again. He must remember that he is still of the world, even if he can only see the tiniest fraction of it. He _is_ one of his Father’s earthly creations now, albeit by accident rather than design, and that is a miracle too. He reaches for the feeling of connection he’d had only a few hours ago when Charlie had touched him but it is gone now. 

“Please don’t tell Dean and Sam about this,” he says. It would upset them, he thinks. It would certainly embarrass them. His face is wet with tears and he knows that is frowned upon. In any case, it is something he has brought upon himself.

“Well, you’ve got the macho part of being human down, I guess,” Charlie says resignedly. “All right. But remember that this stuff is still important, okay?”

“Okay,” Castiel says. He feels awkward now, but he does not want Charlie to move away. “Thank you for your patience.”

Charlie laughs. “No problem. Dean listened for me once, so I figure this is just passing it on, right?” She raises her head. “Wanna make sure the Empire is destroyed? We can keep snuggling. For great justice.”

Castiel nods, relieved. A distraction would be welcome and he _is_ a little worried about how the characters are going to defeat the evil Darth Vader. It is very kind of her to reassure him that the physical intimacy will continue. “For great justice.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Castiel wakes the next morning with Charlie’s hair in his mouth and her drool on his shirt. He cannot feel one of his arms and his alarm wakes her.

“My hair’s stuck to your stubble,” she whines into his sternum. “This is why boys are gross. Don’t you know how to shave?”

“No,” Castiel says. “I know how to cut myself by accident.” The feeling is coming back into his arm now that Charlie has moved. It is highly unpleasant.

“Rrrgh,” Charlie says, burying her face against his side. “Mmkay. Today will be about learning. First we’ll learn how to make coffee.”

They both feel much better after the coffee lesson. “This is more effective than Dean’s coffee,” Castiel says, trying to figure out if there’s enough left in the pot for a second cup.

“After breakfast,” Charlie tells him. “It’ll stay warm. Now, I don’t know anything about shaving faces, but fortunately for you I’m a goddess with a search engine. Let us proceed to the bathroom and may the Force be with us.”

“I understood that reference,” Castiel says, pleased. Charlie laughs.

The act of shaving, a helpful video tells them, is greatly improved by the liberal application of shaving cream, and should also be done before or during a shower instead of after it. They both feel very accomplished when Castiel only cuts himself twice.

“Okay,” Charlie says when they have both showered and changed and she has taught him about Pop Tarts, “what else do you want to learn about being human?”

Castiel considers this. There is so much he doesn’t know that it is very overwhelming for a moment, so he narrows the field of choices to things that will allow him to be useful to Dean and Sam. He’s too worried about what might go wrong to leave the bunker, so that narrows his choices further.

“Laundry,” he says decisively. “Or, do you know how to make pie?” 

“No, but I know how to use the internet,” Charlie says. “It can’t be that hard. We’ll get laundry going and then give it a shot.”

By the time Dean, Sam, and Kevin return from their research trip Charlie and Castiel have created two successful pies and one Monstrosity, which arose when they both lost patience with the intractability of homemade pie dough, dumped all their ingredients haphazardly into a pan, and hoped for the best. 

The learning process has also resulted in the liberal application of ingredients to the two bakers and to most of the surfaces in the kitchen. When Dean and Sam walk in they are greeted by two particularly guilty expressions and, in an unfortunate piece of timing, Charlie’s mis-aimed attempt to get flour in Castiel’s hair.

“ _What._ ” Sam says, blinking through a cloud of white.

Dean looks at Charlie and Castiel, then the pies, and then his floury brother, and bursts out laughing.

“Call _that_ a victory,” Charlie says smugly, extending her fist.

Castiel dutifully bumps it with his own and then extends his fingers while Charlie makes ‘explosion’ noises. Dean begins wheezing and has to sit down.

“This is actually pretty good,” Kevin mumbles, already fork-deep into the Monstrosity.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Oh my God, I feel like a parent,” Sam says when he finds the blanket fort.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

It is very difficult to relinquish the feeling of merriment, but once Dean manages to stop laughing it becomes clear that he and Sam would like to confer with Kevin and Charlie and they would prefer to do it in Castiel’s absence. Castiel volunteers to tidy the kitchen and tries not to worry overmuch about what could be under discussion. Matters have seemed better between he and Dean lately and Sam has been kind to him throughout. Surely Dean would not have laughed so freely if something was truly amiss?

Castiel cleans, and frets, and is badly startled when Charlie pops her head into the kitchen and summons him to the library. He understands for the first time why Dean had always been so annoyed by Castiel’s sudden appearances.

Castiel feels his anxiety mount as he nears the library, and Charlie tucks her hand into his. He tightens his grip in wordless thanks, and then goes to take a seat at the table.

“Okay,” Sam says. “You’ve probably noticed that we’ve been working on something for the past few days. We have a couple of things to run by you and get your opinion on.” 

Dean scowls and Sam shoots him a glare. Dean holds his hands up in a sarcastic ‘fine, I surrender’ gesture. Castiel nods nervously, worried by the apparent difference in opinion between the two brothers. Perhaps that is why they have not consulted him already?

“Of course,” he says warily.

Sam looks to Kevin, who clears his throat and picks up a sheet of paper. “Right. The first thing is that we think we’ve found a record of the spell Metatron used.”

Castiel is astonished. “I am impressed,” he says sincerely. It must have been quite difficult. The lengthy research trips make more sense now.

“The second thing,” Sam says, “is that we think he did it wrong.”

“I’ve been looking into the angels who fell to Earth,” Charlie says, tapping a stack of printouts and photocopies. “A few days ago there was a report of a person disappearing in a flash of pure white light. It exactly matches what Dean and Sam have said about angels leaving their vessels except that there wasn’t an empty vessel left behind.”

“From the description, we think it might have been Joshua,” Sam says. “Assuming that the way we were able to perceive him in Heaven is anything like how he’d look on Earth, anyway.”

Castiel considers this information. “I agree that it does sound like a vessel being abandoned, and that an angel being able to do so deliberately would be an indication of Metatron’s spell failing, but it doesn’t seem likely that he would make such a mistake.”

“Take a look,” Kevin says. “Assuming this is the right spell, and we’re pretty sure it is, the ingredients aren’t right.”

Castiel skims through it. “‘The heart of a Nephilim’,” he reads aloud, “‘the bow of a Cupid, and the Grace of an angel in love’.” It’s a bit of a shock to see his motivations described so starkly, but it’s hardly inaccurate. His disobediences have almost always been prompted by love - of his Father, of his Father’s creations, of his friends. It is also illuminating in other ways. “That explains why he killed Naomi and waited for my arrival instead of simply using her Grace.”

Naomi could be accused of many things, but love would not be among them.

“Cas, it says ‘an angel in love’,” Sam says delicately.

Castiel glances over the untranslated spell to be sure, but while the most precise translation would be ‘loving angel’ the gist of it is accurate. “The ingredients are correct, if that’s your question,” Castiel says. Not for the first time, he wishes that humans were better at stating things plainly.

Everyone turns to look at Dean.

“What?” Dean snaps. “He just means he’s in love with humanity, it’s nothing special.”

Dean sounds upset. Castiel frowns. Why would that particular item upset him? Love is a positive thing. Could it be because he feels that Castiel’s love has driven him to make too many inadvisable decisions?

“Dude. _Profound bond_ ,” Sam says, eyebrows climbing.

Ah! Of course. Dean is remembering the long list of times that Castiel has disobeyed on humanity’s behalf, and his recurring and inexplicable conviction that he is somehow unworthy is causing him to feel insecure in comparison. That, at least, is easily cleared up.

“Dean.” Castiel fixes him with a steady look. “I did not Fall for the others. I have always loved you best. You have nothing to fear.”

This does not make things better. Dean looks unnerved. Castiel is perplexed.

Sam coughs loudly. “Okay! Well. So. That’s… awkward.”

Castiel winces, understanding. He has been tactless, yet again. “I apologize, Sam. I have come to love you very much as well. I should have been more clear.”

Sam stares at him. “ _More awkward_ ,” Kevin coughs.

“As much as this is beautiful and I totally, completely support it,” Charlie says, leaning forward, “I have to ask: agape, philia, or eros?”

Castiel blinks. Is that what the trouble is? “Agape initially, but it turned to philia very early on.” He glances at the others. They are trying very hard to look anywhere but at him or each other and he cringes in embarrassment. He has made them all extremely uncomfortable. “I am utterly indifferent to sexual orientation.”

“Relax, boys,” Charlie says drily, “he loves you like a brother. You can unclench now.”

“Oh,” Sam says, sounding relieved. “It’s okay, Cas. We, um…”

“Backatcha,” Dean supplies.

“Yeah, that.”

Charlie gives them all pitying looks. “ _Anyway_. So we’ve established that the ingredients were right. Any other theories?”

“Actually,” Castiel says, seizing on the change in topic with relief, “assuming Metatron did not simply summon Joshua to Heaven, I think the ingredients may still be the problem. All three of them revolve around love in some fashion - the product of the love between an angel and a human, an instrument to cause love, and the essence of a loving being - and any sacrifice involving love is far more powerful if it is given freely.”

“Four for you, J. K. Rowling,” Charlie says happily.

“You didn’t give your Grace freely,” Dean says, and Castiel is warmed by his certainty.

“No, and the nephilim’s heart was taken by force as well,” he agrees. “The problem is that we were able to convince the cupid to relinquish her bow voluntarily, which Metatron wouldn’t have known because he was held captive by Naomi at the time. It _could_ have created a power imbalance which would make the spell unstable.”

“So the angels are going to start returning to Heaven?” Kevin asks. “What’s Metatron going to do? Are they going to be able to take him?”

Castiel sighs. “Unfortunately, it’s not that simple. This is all speculation. Joshua may have been able to return to Heaven by exerting his will. He may have been allowed to return because Heaven is what he loves most. Metatron may have called him back - he’s not a warrior and he’s a logical choice if Metatron needs information or is trying to contact God. It could even be that the spell is no longer able to keep that much Grace contained and it is starting to leak through the barriers, returning to angels and recalling them at random. There is simply no way to tell with the information we have and therefore no way to predict Metatron’s next actions.”

“It’s never goddamn easy,” Dean sighs. “All right, what kind of information do we need to be sure?”

“And do we even want to find out?” Kevin counters. “I mean, obviously Metatron sucks and we hate him, but he doesn’t actually seem to be doing anything. We’re already neck-deep in hellbeasts down here - why poke the bear?”

Everyone turns to look at Castiel. “Heaven wasn’t meant to be controlled by one angel, much less one like Metatron,” Castiel says heavily. “Even if he hasn’t lost control of the spell and he never turns his attention to Earth, there is simply too much for him to look after. Without the proper attention Heaven could succumb to entropy, which would throw off the balance of the rest of existence. Again, this is all speculation.”

“So we’re back to information,” Dean says. “Cas, what would you need to be able to tell how much trouble we’re in?”

“Ideally, a trip to Heaven,” Castiel says, shrugging, “which is obviously beyond our grasp. Failing that, a report on the conditions in Heaven from a competent observer.”

“Well, Joshua’s up there,” Sam says, but Dean shakes his head.

“Too risky, no guarantee he’ll help.” He snaps his fingers. “Ash! We can contact Ash. He definitely has the setup and we know he’s there.”

“So we’ll need a psychic,” Sam muses. “We don’t really have any left on the Rolodex. Maybe that one town, remember that town?”

“God, not there,” Dean says, shuddering.

“What about the lady psychic from Lawrence?” Charlie says. “She was in _Home_ , she was awesome.”

Dean and Sam both pale alarmingly.

“No, absolutely not,” Dean says.

“I think it might be our only choice,” Sam says reluctantly. “At least we know she’s the real thing - a lot of the people in that town were quacks.”

“ _Sam_ ,” Dean says pleadingly. “We haven’t called or written in _years_ , she is going to _murder us_.”

Sam straightens suddenly. “We can bring Cas!”

“Fresh meat?” Dean says thoughtfully. “It could work. Maybe. If it doesn’t I’m standing behind you, Sammy.”

“I don’t think I want to go,” Castiel says, which is a misstatement made for the sake of politeness. He emphatically does not want to go. Going involves leaving the bunker and, from the sound of it, certain danger.

“Tough cookies, you’re going,” Dean says. “Pack a bag, do not under any circumstances wear the ‘I Heart Boobies’ shirt. We’ll leave in the morning.”

“‘I Heart Boobies’ shirt?” Charlie says. “Hey, can I have it?”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Castiel wakes that night from a dream that is half memory and half nightmare and ends with Dean dead and bloody on the floor and Sam and Charlie trying desperately to kill him before he does any more damage, Metatron laughing in the background. He is halfway to Dean’s room before he even realises he has awoken, and barely manages to restrain himself from bursting in to make sure Dean is alive.

From the darkened hallway, with his human eyes, he can’t tell if Dean is all right. The absence of Dean’s soul in his perceptions is an aching void. He can hear Dean breathing, though, and he forces himself to remain in the hallway and listen until his own heartbeat has slowed and he doesn’t feel quite so ill. He presses his forehead to the door jamb and tries to match his breathing with Dean’s.

When the terrible feeling of terror and shame has lessened somewhat, he makes himself walk away. Dean has always been particular about his personal space and has in the past been extremely displeased whenever Castiel attempted to watch over him as he slept. It is illogical but Castiel tries to humour him when he can.

He wanders aimlessly for a while - through the atrium and the kitchen, where the remains of the pies have been carefully packed away, and into the library where he spends a moment wishing that the blanket fort hadn’t been dismantled to make way for yesterday’s meeting. He doesn’t quite understand why, but the flimsy construction of sheets and string had actually felt protective in the end. Perhaps it explains why humans had left their more defensible trees and caves and started traveling with animal-skin tents instead. He’d always wondered. 

There is a stack of papers at the end of the table and, with no other distraction from the aftermath of his nightmare on hand, Castiel begins an idle investigation of them. The first few pages are statistical crime and accident reports, some in English and some with translations attached, and underneath is an article by a psychiatrist in Massachusetts about the sudden rise in religious mania in the homeless population.

Castiel feels himself go cold. This is Charlie’s research on the Fallen angels.

He pushes the pile away quickly. He cannot do anything about it. He cannot - _must not_ \- try to help. It is better, surely it is better, if he remains ignorant -

“Curiosity finally get the best of you?” Dean says from just behind him.

Castiel startles badly. “No! No. I was just, I, I was awake, and now I will go back to sleep.”

He goes to rise but Dean pushes him down. The hand on Castiel’s shoulder is gentle but firm. Dean sits beside him with a sigh.

“Look, Cas. About this hiding thing you’ve been doing.”

Castiel flinches and looks down.

“No, listen to me, Cas. You’ve been through a lot of crap in the past few years. Hell, you’ve been through a lot of crap always, as it turns out. We had the time for you to take a breather and that’s damn rare in our line of work. I wish we could give you more time, but we’re going to need you _with us_ from now on, do you understand me? This Heaven stuff, that’s your thing. We’ll back you, we’ll even take the lead, but you can’t sit it out.”

Castiel presses his hand against his eyes. “Dean…”

“And before you say you’ll make everything worse, just - shut up, okay? The last time you said that you helped us waste fake Dick and saved the frigging day. So you made some spectacularly bad choices, trusted the wrong people? We all have. We stick together, we can keep an eye out so it doesn’t happen again. So shut up about making things worse and spend your time making sure it doesn’t happen again.”

Castiel remembers that conversation, standing by the shrouded Impala with a hospital bracelet on his wrist and too much of the universe crammed into his head. He’d taken it as a sign of Dean’s impending forgiveness, then, and maybe he’d even been correct. Dean had looked for him in Purgatory, even if he’d never reiterated his earlier assertions of ownership. Castiel takes a deep breath.

“Once, when I was… bad, you said we were - that, once we’d been -”

“Cas.” Dean waits pointedly until Castiel looks at him. “Would I get this angry at anyone but family? Read the damn research and tell me what you think.” He slumps dramatically back in his chair and stares at the ceiling. “ _God_. Why is it always at the ass end of midnight that I have to have these conversations?”

Castiel is grateful that Dean has looked away. It gives him a chance to compose himself, which is probably what Dean had intended. “I thought you and Sam usually bonded on the hood of the Impala during the day so you could look at the scenery instead of each other.”

“Shut up and read, smartass.”

Castiel smiles despite himself, and turns his attention to the stack of papers before he can talk himself out of it. He feels absurdly grateful to Dean for remaining next to him while he does so, even when Dean begins to snore softly a few pages in.

Castiel reads, and learns that there has been a slight rise in the homeless population reported in several cities. He learns that there has been a slight rise in anonymous suicides. He learns that a strange person walked into a church in Montreal and spent nearly an hour ranting angrily in a language no one could identify until a seminary student managed to calm her in classical Hebrew. He learns that another stranger walked into a church in Louisiana and sobbed uncontrollably until a paramedic was summoned to sedate him. He learns that the unexpected worldwide meteor shower has astronomers baffled.

No one appears to have put any of these things together. Aside from the reports on insanity in homeless people, there are no stories of anyone claiming to be an angel. There is nothing about the discovery of an unidentified female body with a broken neck in the parking lot of a filling station.

“Thousands of angels walking the Earth,” Castiel says heavily, “and we are swallowed completely by humanity. So much for the might of heaven.” He doesn’t know what he was expecting, really. Humanity has certainly swallowed him.

“Humanity ignores monsters, too,” Dean says, unconcerned and apparently wide awake despite the snoring. “We’re good at it. You were the mopiest angel in your garrison, weren’t you?”

“I got a commendation for it, actually,” Castiel says, and Dean smiles.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Their departure the next morning is delayed somewhat when Dean sends Castiel back to his room twice to change and then demands that Sam give him a lesson in dressing himself.

“What are you, colourblind?” he complains, giving Castiel’s apparel a disgusted look. 

“You realize this is all your fault for getting him ridiculous clothing on purpose,” Sam says, taking time out from an explanation of color theory to glare at his brother.

“I don’t understand why this is important,” Castiel says testily. “They are all colors.”

“It’s not my fault he actually wears what I got,” Dean says, ignoring him completely. “Jesus God, who made the coffee this morning? I think my tooth enamel is dissolving.”

“Cas did, and it’s perfect,” Charlie says happily. “You’re just a wuss.”

“I’ll drink it for you,” Castiel offers, hoping to get out of his color-matching lesson, but Dean just calls him a caffeine junkie and starts spooning sugar into his cup.

Finally, caffeinated and appropriately attired, they prepare to leave. Castiel stands in the doorway of the bunker and watches as Dean and Sam argue over what gets put where and whether or not they should take back roads or the highway. He is wary of leaving the bunker, although after his conversation with Dean last night his wariness is no longer so much because he is afraid of causing trouble as it is a sudden awareness of his own vulnerability. He cannot tell at a glance if someone is human, demon, or some other creature in disguise. His strength, speed, and resilience are vastly decreased. He does feel much safer since he will be with Dean and Sam, but he will also be a liability and he is aware that this first departure into the world will inevitably lead to him being out on his own at some point.

_Quit pinin’ for the varsity years and load the damn truck._

Despite himself, Castiel smiles. Bobby had been a unique and wonderful human, although he probably would have been embarrassed to be told so.

“Hey!” Dean’s voice startles him out of his reverie. “Time to go. Put on your damn coat.” 

His old overcoat hits Castiel in the face. It has been cleaned and folded, and he feels an unexpected surge of relief at its return. Dean attaches a great deal of significance to it and it is very comfortable. He picks it up and puts it on.

“It doesn’t really go with what he’s wearing -” Sam begins.

“Shut up, Sammy,” Dean says. He is blushing. Castiel is not sure why.

Whether it’s because of the coat or the banter, Castiel’s nervousness disappears once he’s in the backseat of the Impala. He can no longer feel the depth of Dean’s contentment and security while in his beloved car, but he remembers it well and it has certainly helped form his own affection for the vehicle. He finds the rumble of the engine and the smell of the leather and gun oil to be very comforting. He slept for the very first time in this car.

Castiel has no illusions about his likely ultimate end, now that he has a human soul and everything that goes with it, but he’s fairly sure that the Heaven he’s never going to get would involve the backseat of the Impala, a long stretch of road, and Dean and Sam bickering in the front.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Wakey wakey, Cas, rise and shine,” Dean says, reaching over the seat to shake Castiel awake. “Geez, five minutes in the car and you’re out like a light. You’re like a toddler, man.”

Castiel blinks and straightens up. It is late afternoon and they have stopped in front of a small two-story house with a nice porch, which Dean and Sam are both eyeing with great trepidation. It seems a banal setting for someone so evidently terrifying, but Castiel is well-aware that external appearances often mask an internal truth.

Accordingly, as they exit the car and ascend the front steps, Castiel stays as close to Dean as possible. If there truly is danger in the house, he must be ready to protect.

“How has becoming human not fixed the personal space thing?” Dean gripes. “What did I tell you about the personal space bubble?”

“Arm’s length,” Castiel sighs, and dutifully extends his arm and steps back the required amount. It puts him away from the house’s front door, but he should still be close enough to act if it becomes necessary. Behind his brother’s back, Sam laughs silently.

“Go ahead and knock, Dean,” Sam says.

“You knock, it was your idea.”

“Technically it was Charlie’s idea, and you’re the oldest.”

“So? You’re freakishly tall, it’s not like you can actually hide behind -”

The door slams open and both brothers jump to attention. The women who comes out onto the porch begins to berate them, reminding them she’s a psychic and can also _hear them_ but the words pass Castiel by in a meaningless rush because Missouri Mosely is glowing with an aura that is just as bright as any that Castiel was ever able to see with his angelic vision. He can see her good nature, her love for those she considers to be under her care. He can see her frightened by her powers as a child, growing into them as a teenager, exploring them as an adult. He can see everything he needs to know about her in a single glance and the relief of it is staggering.

“I can see you,” Castiel blurts, his eyes stinging.

She glances over at him and then takes a longer look, her essence pulsing with surprise. “What on Earth -” she starts, and then her aura swirls with sympathy. She pushes past Dean and puts her hand on Castiel’s cheek. Warmth floods him, and concern and _knowledge_ and he shudders under the lightness of it. “Oh, baby, what have they done to you?”

There is too much to say aloud but he can feel her attention sharpen and he reaches out the way he used to be able to reach out to his siblings. She responds in kind, taking in his hurts and transgressions and offering her judgement in return, kind but unflinching. He is laid bare in an instant and then gently released.

“What is that, a Vulcan mind-meld?” Dean asks, and with Missouri’s hand still cupping his cheek Castiel can _see_ him and Sam again, too. Dean’s flippant words belie his worry and protectiveness - he’s ready to step forward in an instant should there seem to be danger in the offering, and his soul shines, battered but undaunted. At his back Sam is watchful and intrigued, his natural curiosity and love of knowledge warring with his learned cynicism. For the first time Castiel can see his soul as well, and it’s a beautiful thing.

“I can see you again,” he whispers, and does not care when the tears overflow.

“All right, that’s it. Somebody explain,” Dean says, his tone even but intent.

“Yes, I think there are a lot of explanations needed,” Missouri says tartly, turning to face him. She slips her hand into Castiel’s so he can still see and ushers them all towards the door. “Come inside, then. Dean, start heating water for the tea - yes, fine, you can have hot chocolate instead, it’s in the cabinet. Sam, get the teapot down from the shelf. You’ll have chamomile and like it, young man, you should think more nicely about your brother. Castiel, baby, open that drawer and get yourself a handkerchief, we’ll go sit on the couch and wait for them to get everything ready.”

Dean gives Castiel a piercing look as he permits himself to be led to the sitting room, but lets him go without comment. Castiel is grateful for his silence; with his hand in Missouri’s he can sense that Dean is merely worried by his reaction on the porch, and to be honest now that the first rush of relief has passed Castiel is beginning to feel a little embarrassed about the display of emotion himself.

“Please,” Missouri scoffs. “You can afford to display a little emotion.” She sits him down on the couch and takes the handkerchief from his hand. It’s smaller than the one Castiel is used to and has a very pretty row of pink flowers embroidered around the edge. It seems a shame to use it for something so undignified as crying, but Missouri briskly wipes the tears off his face, holds it to his nose, and commands “Blow.”

Castiel does as he is told and does feel better afterwards, although it’s a shame about the handkerchief.

“It’ll wash, and I have plenty more,” Missouri assures him. “You keep this one.” She tucks it into his pocket. “Do you want to take off your coat? All right, keep it on then.”

They sit in companionable silence until Dean and Sam finish with the tea things and come in with everything balanced on a tray. Castiel feels Missouri’s fond amusement at the sight of the little plate of carefully arranged cookies, but she maintains a stern front. The fact that Dean and Sam are clearly hoping it will magically make her less irritated with them helps.

“Sit.” She says. “Explain.”

The explanations - of Dean and Sam’s activities over the past several years and of Castiel’s outburst on the porch - take the whole pot of tea, all the cookies, and two cups of cocoa, even with Missouri sensing half of it before it’s said out loud. When they’re done, she sighs and leans back.

“Well, if this isn’t the biggest mess I’ve seen in my entire life, I don’t know what is.”

Dean and Sam exchange guilty glances. Castiel hunches his shoulders miserably. Missouri gives them all despairing looks.

“I’m not saying that big chunks of it weren’t your fault, but at least you’ve tried to put it right and that’s a lot more than most folk do. In fact, I’d say you’ve done better against heavy odds than you had any right to. Now, tell me what your plan is. Yes, I know what you’re thinking,” she adds, giving Dean a deeply unamused look, “but I want to hear you say it.”

Dean looks suitably chastened. “We need to contact someone in Heaven,” Sam explains. “His name’s Ash. We’re hoping that if he can tell us what’s going on up there we’ll be able to figure out what to do next.”

“Do you have anything that belongs to him?” Missouri asks. “I’m not a search engine, you know. I need something to work with.”

“Uh. No,” Sam admits.

“Actually, I’m not even sure what his last name is,” Dean says, voice trailing off. “Hey! What about Pamela? She was with Ash when we were there and she’s definitely a competent observer. Would it be easier to contact another psychic?”

“It might be,” Missouri says slowly. “I’ve met her myself, at least. I can certainly try.”

It doesn’t work. After several attempts, Missouri gives up in frustration. “It’s not the most ideal summoning I’ve ever done, but it shouldn’t have been that hard,” she says.

Castiel considers the situation. If, as they suspect, Metatron’s spell is essentially separating every angel artificially from their Grace, then the barrier could conceivably cause interference that prevents other things from crossing as well. If they use the parameters of the spell to their advantage, it could be possible to sneak past…

“Well, it’s worth a shot,” Missouri says.

“All right, that’s it,” Dean snaps. “Enough with the silent treatment. Cas, speak for yourself!”

Castiel blinks at him. Of course. It is exclusionary on his part to rely on the ease of communication with Missouri instead of resorting to the less reliable method of speaking out loud. “My apologies. I suggest we try to contact Bobby, since all of us present love him.”

Dean and Sam both look embarrassed. Even Missouri looks awkward.

“Wait, you and Bobby?” Dean says, eyebrows raising.

“Miserable old coot,” Missouri mutters. “And you, get your mind out of the gutter, it wasn’t like that.”

Nevertheless, this time the attempt works. Missouri only has to try for a moment before Bobby’s voice says, quite clearly, “What the Hell have you three done now?”

“Well, uh, technically this time it’s ‘what the Heaven’,” Dean says. “And anyway, it wasn’t our fault.”

“Whatever,” Bobby says, and even as a disincorporated spirit speaking from beyond the veil his unimpressed expression is powerful enough to be felt. “What happened?”

Castiel braces himself for another round of explanations and Bobby’s inevitable disappointment with him, and then Sam says “The Scribe of God came out of hiding and kicked all the angels out of Heaven. What’s it look like from your end?”

“Frigging weird, is what it looks like,” Bobby says. “Weather’s off, scenery keeps changing, and there’s some little guy with a beard who keeps wandering through muttering to himself. Is Cas okay?”

“I am fine,” Castiel says, warmed by his concern. “These changes you see, are they cosmetic or is everything getting closer?”

Dean makes an abrupt gesture with his hands that is apparently supposed to indicate _What does that even mean?_ , but Bobby says “Getting closer, definitely. I’m gonna assume that’s bad.”

“Extremely,” Castiel says heavily. “How real are your surroundings?”

“It’s like being in one of those impressionist paintings,” Bobby says. “Get far enough away and it looks fine, but up close everything’s a mess. And it’s getting hard to find a ‘far enough away’.”

Castiel has to close his eyes for a moment. Across from him Sam says “Okay, Cas is having an expression. That’s not good. How bad is this?”

“Heaven is succumbing to entropy,” Castiel says. “And more quickly than I had imagined. Metatron will not be able to control it much longer - I’d say a week, at the most.”

“And what happens then?” Bobby asks.

“One of two things, depending on what Metatron does to try and slow the destruction,” Castiel explains. “Heaven could collapse, which will unbalance existence. Or Heaven may detonate, which will obliterate existence.”

“And what does ‘unbalance existence’ mean, exactly?” Sam asks. He looks like he isn’t sure he wants to know the answer.

“The vacuum of Heaven will break down the boundaries between Earth, Purgatory, and Hell,” Castiel says, who knows he does not. “All that remains will mix. People and places will… amalgamate, become parts of each realm, simultaneously.” He tries to find the appropriate phrase to encompass the horror of it, but cannot. “It will be bad,” he says finally.

Missouri, the only one who fully understands what he has left unspoken, puts her hand over her mouth. “Oh, Lord,” she says, eyes wide.

“That bad?” Dean says warily.

“ _Much_ worse.”

“Well, what do we do to stop it?” Bobby demands.

Castiel shrugs helplessly. If only he had not spent so much time in cowardice and depression, they might have more time. Hiding himself in the archive had been the height of self-indulgence and now - _again_ \- everyone else will have to pay the price. He really cannot do anything right. It would be better -

“Stop that,” Missouri says sharply.

Castiel nods, abashed, and focuses on the problem at hand. “If Metatron could be persuaded to let the angels return, balance could still be restored. Or if we could find a way to break the spell ourselves, provided it did not cause too much of a power backlash, we might accomplish the same ends.” A thought strikes him. “Has the Prophet translated the section of the angel tablet to do with the trials? Perhaps we could alter the rituals -”

Dean is already shaking his head. “Big fat goose egg on that one,” he says. “Kevin translated it, but it’s totally unhelpful.”

“‘The truth will become apparent’,” Sam says, using air quotes in a very sarcastic manner.

“‘The truth will become apparent’?” Bobby repeats incredulously. “Cas, cover your ears. I’m about to speak ill of your dad.”

“Do you think you’d be able to reason with Metatron?” Missouri asks, catching Castiel’s hand before he can put it over his ear.

“Maybe?” Sam says.

“No,” Castiel says shortly. The memory of Metatron’s face as he leaned over Castiel and stole his Grace looms large. “He - no.”

“Cas,” Dean says slowly, “No offense, but your judgment in this area isn’t exactly spotless. We could at least try it.”

“ _No_.” Castiel repeats. “You don’t understand. The things that he has done - I know you don’t think much of angels as a race, but there are some things we _do not do_ and do not tolerate. His only hope for survival now is to maintain this spell and I do believe he will damn the rest of existence rather than relinquish control.”

“Casting out the angels was that bad?” Sam asks.

“Very bad, yes, but not unprecedented. It was, in order to do so -” he stops, struggling with the words. “He _tore out our Graces_ ,” he says finally, hoarsely. “He tore out _my_ Grace. To do so, to remove... it is a violation so profound. Even Lucifer was cast out with his Grace intact. You cannot, as humans, fully comprehend what it is to have that taken, the enormity of the loss and the void it leaves behind. My Grace has diminished before, so I was better able to withstand it, but it is still… his expression as he did it was not remorseful. It was _gleeful_.” He shudders. “An angel willing to do that to others would not balk at the destruction of everything. He would welcome it.”

“Okay, Cas,” Dean says gently. “We don’t negotiate with utter fuckheads. We’ll just find a way to break the spell and gank Metatron. Anyone have any ideas?”

“I’ll talk to some of my contacts,” Missouri offers, “see if we can’t scare up any more information.”

“You have a lot of contacts with this kind of expertise?” Dean says sarcastically.

“My contacts are dead, boy. Mind your tone or you can join them,” Missouri says tartly.

“I’ll call Garth and Charlie and ask them to start looking into the lore,” Sam says quickly. “If the spell is already weakening, maybe we won’t have to find an exact counterspell if we can find something that will apply enough pressure to make it collapse before Heaven does.”

“There’s a fair number of hunters up here,” Bobby says. “More than I was expecting, frankly. We could maybe see about applying your pressure. Cas, would that help or make it worse?”

Castiel shakes his head. “I’m not sure. I don’t think we should risk any activity in Heaven until we have no other choice.”

“Well, let me know, I guess,” Bobby says. He sounds disappointed. He is both a man of action and one of great learning, so it is understandable that having to sit by and wait would not be an attractive prospect. Castiel wishes he could think of a quest or a difficult bit of lore for him to decipher, but he is too worried about the fragility of Heaven. Bobby may still have a role to play, but Castiel cannot manufacture one for him now.

They end the conversation soon after, Missouri closing her eyes with an exhausted sigh and the Winchesters immediately taking out their phones to begin marshalling their forces. Dean gets off the phone quickly with Charlie and Kevin, but Sam ends up talking to Garth for quite some time. Most of Sam’s part in the conversation seems to consist of repeating Garth’s name with varying levels of impatience.

They stay the night at Missouri’s, Dean and Sam in her guest room and Castiel on the couch. Castiel and Missouri can both feel Dean’s need to get moving and start dealing with the mess in front of them, but Missouri is very insistent. Eventually they strike a compromise: they will stay the night but leave first thing in the morning, before breakfast.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Perhaps it is due to the nap in the car, and perhaps it is due to the events of the day, but Castiel has a great deal of trouble sleeping that night. The couch is quite comfortable and Missouri gave him a nice pillow and soft blankets in addition to his overcoat, and yet he lies awake and stares into the darkness. It is irritating, and that makes it even harder to sleep, which irritates him more.

He is worried about the state of Heaven. He is worried about the angels on Earth and what will happen to them. He has learned to have faith in the Winchesters, even when their plans seem to be suicidally insane, but he is worried that they will not be able to find any answers. In the past it has been simpler - prevent Lucifer from rising. Prevent the battle between Lucifer and Michael. Stop Raphael. Kill the Leviathan. Opposition has been difficult, certainly, and they have not always succeeded, but the goal was clear.

Now… what is their goal now? To prevent the collapse of Heaven, certainly, but how? To prevent Metatron from abusing his power, but again, how? And what is to become of the angels? What happens when Crowley returns to his scheming ways - or when a new demon rises to take his place? If they cannot close Heaven and Hell, will this battle be eternal? Will there always be a newer, more insurmountable foe before them? They have all cracked and broken over the years, and found different ways to hold themselves together and keep going. What happens when they can do so no longer? 

What will happen to the last of them to survive?

“Baby, you think too loud,” Missouri sighs from the living room’s doorway. She is clad in a soft bathrobe and carrying two mugs of tea.

“I apologize,” Castiel says, sitting up to take his. “I am having difficulty controlling my thoughts tonight.”

“Mm-hmm,” Missouri says drily. She perches on the edge of the coffee table and takes a sip of her tea, giving Castiel a pointed look until he drinks from his as well. It is nice - hot and fragrant but not too sweet. He takes a second sip.

“What worries you most?” Missouri asks.

“The unknown,” Castiel says immediately. “I dislike being without a clear course of action. And I worry about the consequences, should our plan fail.”

“What do you want most?” Missouri asks.

Castiel blinks at her. “I don’t understand.”

“Humor me,” Missouri says. “Forget about everything else for a minute. If you could have one thing, one outcome, no matter how selfish or unlikely, what would it be?”

He wants the world not to be destroyed. He wants these endless battles to cease. He wants his Father to return and take this uncertainty from him. He wants to be able to go back to the way it was - not when he was in Heaven, unsuspecting and controlled, but when he was on Earth, protecting.

“It’ll sit right here,” Missouri says, tapping her breastbone. “What do you want?”

Castiel reaches up to rub his chest. He wants to protect. No, he wants to safeguard. He wants it to be permanent. He wants - 

“I want Dean and Sam to be safe,” he says. “Not at peace, they wouldn’t like that. I want them to be free to do what they wish.”

“Where would you be?” Missouri asks. Her eyes are sad.

Castiel shrugs. “I love my Father’s world,” he says. “It doesn’t matter if there’s a place for me in it or not.”

They sit in silence for a few minutes. Castiel feels calmer now, clearer. They will look into the situation and make a plan. It may not go well, this may be the time they cannot save themselves, but Castiel will protect Dean and Sam to the best of his ability. As long as he holds to that, he will not drown.

He blinks. His head feels very heavy and his eyes keep closing no matter what he tries to tell them. “Did you put something in the tea?” he asks, the words slurring.

“Yep,” Missouri says. “I told you, you think too loud. I need my beauty sleep.”

Castiel is asleep before Missouri finishes tucking him in.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Sam wakes Castiel far too early the next morning and only laughs when Castiel groggily attempts to banish him in Enochian.

“I never would have pegged you for such a terrible morning person,” Sam says, watching Castiel list to one side.

“It’ll wear off soon enough,” Missouri says serenely.

“You roofied him?” Dean asks, outraged. “Make him some coffee!”

“I don’t believe in coffee,” Missouri says sweetly. “I only have tea.”

“Coffee definitely exists,” Castiel tells her sleepily, resting his head on the nearest available surface. It turns out to be Dean’s shoulder.

“He couldn’t sleep,” Missouri says, shrugging. She sounds amused.

Dean sighs. “Fine, we’ll stop for breakfast somewhere and juice him up.” His voice is a little strained. “Shut _up_ , Sam.”

Castiel’s head feels much clearer when Dean wakes him later, although the jolt of adrenaline probably helps.

“Nightmare?” Dean asks, watching Castiel warily. Castiel has seen him and Sam both wake violently from their dreams, so Dean’s caution is well-learned.

“Memory,” Castiel corrects. “The fishing boat, after you tried to rescue Adam.” The slightly fuzzy-headed feeling is the same as when he woke in the hospital afterwards, although this time he doesn’t have an extremely startled nurse dropping a clipboard on his leg.

“Well, buck up,” Dean says, whacking Castiel on the shoulder. “This place has pancakes and I bet if you bat your baby blues they’ll make you some of the toxic sludge you call coffee.”

The restaurant does indeed have decent coffee, and pancakes that come with an assortment of different syrups. At Sam’s prompting, Castiel tries a little of each kind of syrup so he can see which one he likes most. To Dean’s unadulterated disgust, he decides that he likes his pancakes with ketchup.

“Just _wrong_ ,” Dean mutters into his bacon.

“I can’t wait to introduce you to pizza,” Sam says brightly.

“If you give him Hawaiian pizza I will _disown you_ ,” Dean says, pointing his fork dramatically. “Fruit has no place on pizza.”

Castiel frowns. “But aren’t tomatoes -”

“No!”

“Logic has no place in this conversation, Cas,” Sam says kindly.

“Logic has no place in many conversations,” Castiel mourns. “I require more ketchup.”

Despite the looming danger of the battle ahead, or perhaps because of it, breakfast is an enjoyable affair. Castiel mostly listens to the brothers talk, content to simply be nearby. For their part, Dean and Sam seem to enjoy having an audience.

It is as they leave the restaurant that it happens. Castiel is walking a step or two behind when something, some human prey instinct or perhaps a vestigial angelic awareness, makes him turn sharply in time to see a cloud of demonic black smoke headed directly for him.

He is just able to scream “ _Dean!”_ and then the smoke is on him, forcing its way through his mouth and nose. It floods through him, cold and slimy like something found under a rock. Castiel tries to scream but his mouth is locked open; he tries to move but his body refuses to respond. The blackness drowns him and everything explodes into agony.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“ -as? Cas. _Castiel_. I think he’s - _sonovabitch_ , Sam, drive faster!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“ - fight, Cas, it’s us! Stop fighting! Oh, for - hold him! Hold him!”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“No, Cas, it’s okay! It’s okay!”

Air floods into his lungs and he chokes on it. The grip on his wrists loosens a fraction. “Cas? You with us?”

Castiel blinks and finds Sam’s face hovering above his. “Sam?” His throat feels raw and abraded. It hurts to talk. He glances to the side and sees his timeline on the wall. He is lying in his bed in the bunker and Sam is kneeling over him.

Sam lets go of his wrists and leans back, shoulders slumping in relief. “Thank God. It’s good to have you back.”

“Back?” Castiel says, and then the memories return. “A demon!” 

He tries to sit up but Sam pushes him flat. “It’s gone, Cas. It’s okay.”

He can still taste the putrid smoke, feel it spreading through him. He shudders. “Water.”

Sam reaches for a glass on the desk. Castiel shakes his head, panic starting to flood him. “Holy water.”

Sam gives him a look, and then changes direction and grabs the flask of holy water instead.

Castiel drains the flask in three swallows. It tastes stale, but it does not burn him. He nearly collapses in relief. “Did I hurt anyone?”

“No,” Sam says. He keeps one hand on Castiel’s shoulder, rubbing absently with his thumb. It’s surprisingly comforting. “The smoke hit you and you started convulsing. Working theory is that there was still enough angel in you that it killed the demon even though you’re human now, or maybe that your body was still sanctified somehow from your Grace. You did that flickering light-up-from-the-inside thing that vessels do when you stab them with Ruby’s knife. We thought you were dead.”

Castiel frowns. His joints ache and his chest hurts and his throat feels terrible, but he certainly doesn’t feel dead. “I remember other things. People yelling.”

Sam laughs humorlessly. “Yeah, we yelled. You hallucinated for a while, too. You were pretty sick. We’ve been taking turns keeping an eye on you.”

“How long?” Castiel asks urgently. “Metatron -”

“We’re working on it,” Sam reassures him. “You’ve been out for about a day. We’ve got a couple of leads we’re chasing down, but nothing solid yet.” He hesitates for a moment, and then continues. “We’ve started seeing signs on Earth, we think.”

Castiel sits up again, and this time Sam lets him. “Let me see -” he stops, surprised, as his hand lands on something soft and squishy. It’s a small reptile with wings, made out of purple shiny fabric and stuffed with padding. Castiel stares at it in confusion.

Sam coughs. “Um. That’s Charlie’s. She left it for you.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a stuffed animal,” Sam says, which answers nothing. “Uh, a lot of humans find them to be comforting.”

Castiel studies it, momentarily distracted. “It has a nice color,” he allows. He’s not sure if he would call it a _comforting_ color, exactly, but… what is the phrase? ‘It’s the thought that counts’?

“It’s a dragon,” Sam says, apparently feeling that further explanation is necessary.

“No, it isn’t,” Castiel says firmly. “Dragons looks nothing like this.”

“It’s a fictional representation of - you know what? Let’s just go upstairs.”

“Yes, of course,” Castiel says, embarrassed by his lack of focus. Sam helps him sit up fully and then get to his feet, a more arduous process than Castiel was expecting. He decides to keep the dragon with him on the off-chance that it will become comforting.

Sam is too tall to be properly supportive as they make their way upstairs, but he keeps an arm around Castiel’s back and they manage somehow. Castiel’s legs are very weak and he feels oddly hollow inside, as if a core strength he had taken for granted has now vanished. It is different from the absence of his Grace but similar enough to be disconcerting. By the time they reach the library Castiel is very ready to sit down again.

They pause at the top of the stairs so Castiel can gather himself for the descent. Dean is standing next to the library table and he turns with such a look of anger on his face that Castiel is momentarily taken back to the last time he was an invalid here, after Naomi retrieved the tablet from him. He falters. Dean had been very upset with him then. It had been painful.

“What the hell, Sam?” Dean says. “Why did you let him out of bed?” He hurries forward and supports Castiel from the other side. “Come on, Cas, nice and easy. Let’s get you sitting down, okay?”

The switch from the anger Castiel was expecting to this unabashed show of concern is so abrupt it leaves him breathless. He submits meekly as Dean sits him down and finds a blanket to put on his lap.

“You… brought the dragon?” Dean asks, eyebrows climbing.

“I have been told it’s a charm for comfort,” Castiel explains. “It’s not a dragon, though. It’s a fictitious lizard with wings.” He sets it carefully on the table.

Dean laughs helplessly. “Good to have you back.”

Castiel frowns. Everyone keeps saying that, but if Sam’s account was accurate then he has been physically present the entire time. He decides it must just be one of those odd human phrases.

“All right,” Charlie says from the doorway. “I’ve got - Cas!”

She rushes forward and wraps her arms around him, tucking his head against her shoulder. After a moment of surprise, Castiel tentatively returns the hug.

“It’s good to see you awake! Aw, you like the dragon? I thought you would. How are you feeling?”

“I am weak,” Castiel says, remembering Dean’s request for honesty. “My throat hurts, as do my joints, and there is a spot on my chest which stings. I am fine, though.”

“Anti possession tattoo,” Dean explains. “We did it DIY prison-style since you were so out of it. It looks pretty good, though, if I do say so myself.”

Castiel pulls his shirt up. There is a square of gauze taped to his chest. He tries to peel it back so he can see the tattoo, but Dean slaps his hands away.

“Hey! No touching. That has to heal.”

Castiel scowls at him, but is distracted by the plate Sam slides onto the table in front of him.

“You could probably use something to eat,” Sam says, and then grins. “Please accept this sandwich as a gesture of solidarity.”

Castiel blinks, surprised. “I have said that before.”

“Uh-huh,” Sam says. “Dig in. No sprouts, I promise.”

“Charlie,” Dean says, sitting down in a chair to Castiel’s left, “you said you’ve got something?”

“Well, sort of,” Charlie says, grimacing.

“It’s kind of a good news/bad news situation,” Kevin says, seating himself at the table. “The good news is we think we’ve chased down a way to damage Metatron’s spell.”

“Missouri talked to a guy who taught ancient history at Cambridge at the turn of the century,” Charlie explains, “and he knew of a spell that returns lost items to their owners. Garth had a guy with a way to juice it up, like, beyond belief, and then we ran it by Bobby who says he thinks it might work to, you know, give the angels their Graces back, or at least crack Metatron’s spell if we aim it right.”

“Okay, kind of conditional, but we can go with it,” Sam says cautiously. “What’s the bad news?”

Charlie and Kevin trade looks. “It has to be performed by an angel.”

“Great!” Dean says with terrible sarcasm. “We’ll just call up the _only angel left_ and see if he wants to break his own spell. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind doing us a solid.”

“I’ll cast it,” Castiel says. “I may have some residual Grace left if the experience with the demon is any indication.”

“Cas,” Charlie says gently, “This takes a lot of power and you just got knocked flat by one demon. Even if you managed to get it going I’m pretty sure it would kill you.”

Castiel shrugs. “It’s worth a try, at least.”

Dean sits up slowly. “No, it’s _not_.”

“Dean,” Castiel says reasonably, “This does seem like our only option.”

“It’s not an option!”

Castiel frowns. “Do we have another plan?”

“We’ll think of something else,” Sam says stiffly. “We’ve done it before.”

“If you’re worried about my strength, the spell doesn’t actually have to succeed,” Castiel reminds them. “I only need to be able to power it long enough to affect Metatron’s spell.”

“We’re worried about you dying for a million-in-one chance that might not even work!” Dean snarls.

“I once died to give you five minutes to talk to Sam,” Castiel says reasonably, “and that was a terrible plan. This one is much better.”

Dean looks honestly hurt by this. “I said no, Cas!”

Castiel sighs. Dean’s sentimentality is often an asset, but it can occasionally be a great hindrance as well. “Charlie, give me the spell.”

“ _Don’t_.”

“I’d… rather not take sides?” Charlie says, eyes darting nervously between Castiel and Dean.

“Dean,” Castiel tries again, clinging to his patience only with long practice, “You once told me ‘If there’s anything worth dying for, this is it,’ and I believed you then. I am cleaning up my mess, as you have _also_ requested. Your irrational fit of sentimentality is not helpful.”

Dean looks like he’s just been slapped. “Fuck you, _no_ , Cas!”

Before Castiel can lose his temper completely, there is a deep rumbling sound and the ground beneath them shakes. The lights flicker and then half of them go out. The hot tide of anger in Castiel’s chest turns to ice in an instant.

“The signs!” he says, cursing himself for forgetting. “Sam, the signs on Earth, what were they?”

“Uh - two earthquakes,” Sam stammers. “A rain of fire and, um, a plague of frogs.”

“Where?” Castiel demands.

“The first one was in St. Louis -”

“ _Have they been getting closer?”_

“I guess so -”

“Metatron,” Castiel says, a wave of doom sweeping over him. “He’s been locating us.”

“But we can’t be found,” Dean says, hand going to his ribcage. “And we’ve warded the bunker.”

“He blew through those before,” Sam says. “Scribe of God, remember?”

“And he can find _me_ ,” Castiel says numbly. They have no way to fight off a full angel, much less one possessing the sole power of Heaven. He should have sent Bobby and the hunters to secure Heaven’s weapons, _why_ did it not occur to him? “A former angel possessed by a demon - it would have been like a beacon.”

“Okay,” Sam says, standing. He looks frantic. “Okay. So we give you those hiding sigils. We can’t carve them, but we can tattoo them. Cas, would it work? Can you draw them out for us? Charlie, get the kit.”

“No time,” Castiel says distantly. He can feel Metatron’s approach like the breaking of a storm. “ _Run._ ”

There is a soundless explosion. Charlie and Kevin are thrown through the door to the library and it slams behind them with enough force to crack the door jamb. Dean and Sam both cry out and go rigid where they stand.

“Hi, Cas,” Metatron says cheerfully.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Castiel stands slowly. Metatron is completely at ease, leaning up against the table with his hands in his pockets.

“Did you hurt Charlie and Kevin?” Castiel asks, keeping his voice as even as he can.

“Dunno,” Metatron says carelessly. “You’re looking a little rough, there, my friend.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a weird few days,” Dean says, his voice strained. Metatron glances over at him and he makes a pained sound.

“Why are you here?” Castiel asks, wishing not for the first time that Dean had a little more sense when it came to keeping his mouth shut. As long as Metatron’s attention is on Castiel, the chances of Dean and Sam being hurt by whatever Metatron is using to hold them captive are lessened.

Hopefully that isn’t Dean’s strategy as well.

“Well, it’s been a while and I thought I’d check in,” Metatron says. “Also, don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there have been some changes in Heaven.”

“I know it’s succumbing to entropy and will soon collapse,” Castiel says. There is little strategic merit in pretending ignorance at this point.

Metatron nods. “Yeah - flaw in the design, huh? But there you go. Anyway, I need to shore it up.” He produces an object and lays it down on the library table. “And that’s where you come in, Castiel.”

Castiel stares at the object. It has been years - centuries - since he’s seen it. Back before the Winchesters and the Apocalypse, before Anna left and before Gabriel became disillusioned with Heaven and vanished. It’s smaller than he remembered, although that might be because human eyes can’t perceive the power it contains.

“Gabriel’s Horn.”

“The Horn of Truth?” Sam asks. He sounds confused, and Castiel can understand why. Human record knows of the Horn as something that compels those who hear it to speak the truth. The reality is somewhat different; used properly, the Horn will _reveal_ the truth of anything from a basic falsehood to the question of existence itself. It had been a particularly powerful weapon in the hands of a trickster like Gabriel.

“You’ve altered the inscriptions,” Castiel realises. 

“Sure did,” Metatron says proudly. “Now it’ll _create_ truth. And I need you to blow it, metaphorically speaking of course.”

“ _You_ blow it,” Dean says reflexively, and grunts in pain. “Why Cas?”

Metatron smiles. “Narrative symmetry? Because I feel like it? Pick one.” He turns his attention back to Castiel. “My position isn’t as stable as I’d like. I want you to change that.”

“What if I don’t?” Castiel asks. Someone begins to hammer on the library door and he feels a frisson of relief. Either Charlie or Kevin is unharmed enough to try to regain entry.

Metatron shrugs. “Everything explodes and nobody has to worry about anything.”

Castiel swallows. Metatron’s blase attitude is not an act. He would bet the Horn of Truth that the last angel is truly content with that outcome. “And if I do?”

“Life continues, and I’ll finally have time to punish the guilty.”

“And exactly who are ‘the guilty’?” Sam says, his voice dangerously soft.

“The angels,” Metatron says. “After I’ve dealt with them no one else needs to get hurt as long as you behave yourselves.”

“Fuck that,” Dean says succinctly. “Cas, don’t you dare.” He falls to his knees with a groan as Metatron glares at him.

“Let me be more direct,” Metatron says. “Castiel, you will do as I say or I will kill the Winchesters, right here and right now. Would you like to see what I’m holding them with?”

He gestures, and Castiel is able to see thick bands binding Dean and Sam from shoulders to knees. His stomach clenches in horror. He recognizes those restraints. The last time he’d seen them was in Naomi’s retraining room.

“Do you remember what these can do?” Metatron asks, his voice soft and deadly. “Can you imagine what they’ll do to humans?”

Yes. Castiel can. He swallows hard against a swell of nausea.

“Come on,” Dean sneers, but it sounds like he’s having difficulty breathing with the tight band around his chest. “You already threatened him with the end of existence. Saying you’ll off us is kind of backsliding.”

Metatron snorts. “Please. I’ve read his file. There’s no line Castiel won’t cross to save the Winchesters.”

It’s true. Father help him, but it’s true. He’s already disobeyed Heaven, killed his own siblings, started a civil war, and allied himself with the King of Hell just to protect them. He’s offered up his own life so many times it barely makes him pause any more. Protecting the Winchesters isn’t a choice, it’s a fact of his existence.

“You’ve always been eccentric,” Metatron says, and he sounds almost fond. “Even by angelic standards. I wasn’t lying, you know, when I said you were the only one who could help me. Anna or Samandriel might have been adequate, if I’d had time to prepare them beforehand, but they’re dead now and neither of them ever disobeyed Heaven the way you did. Again and again, throughout your existence - you were the only loving angel left.”

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” Dean wheezes. “You are such _dicks_ , you son of a b- _augh!_ ”

There is blood leaking through Dean’s shirt now. He is hunched over with pain and still glaring defiantly.

Castiel is frozen. He cannot get his mind to cooperate. His thoughts whirl hopelessly in a frantic attempt to find a solution that will not cause destruction. How does he always come to this? How does he always wind up causing more devastation? Naomi had said he was flawed from the moment of his creation and Metatron has confirmed it. Why is he always brought to this point? What purpose could it possibly have served for his Father to create such a damaged being and then _keep bringing him back?_ Why make him love if it will serve no purpose?

For the first time in a long time, Castiel finds himself praying - hopelessly, fervently. _Help me, help me, help me._

“I’ll sweeten the deal,” Metatron says. “Protection for the boys. Use the Horn, and I’ll see to it that they’re safe. They’ll live charmed lives. They’ll be at peace.”

 _You can take your peace_ , Dean’s voice says in Castiel’s head, _and you can shove it up your lily-white ass._

Castiel blinks. The memory of Missouri’s steady gaze pins him in place. _What do you want?_

 _It was always God’s plan,_ Naomi says. _The ultimate sacrifice._

He sucks in a breath as, just like that, everything falls neatly into place.

_The truth will become apparent._

“You really think pissing him off and handing him a weapon of mass destruction will end well for you?” Sam is saying, his voice coldly furious.

“With that scrap of Grace?” Metatron says incredulously. “Please. It’ll be a struggle just to fix Heaven with that amount of power, and Castiel might be unreliably sentimental but he’s a pragmatist. Heaven’s going bang without it and you don’t have another plan.”

“Fine.” Castiel says. “Give me the Horn.”

“Cas, no,” Dean says, and his voice is barely audible. He can hardly hold himself upright. It is past time to end this.

“Don’t,” Sam says, and there’s a note of pleading in his tone, cut off abruptly when Metatron silences them both. Castiel risks a glance at them - they look horrified and despairing. He wishes he could reassure them, explain what he’s planning, but there’s no way to do it without alerting Metatron as well.

“I’ve always had a crack in my chassis,” he says helplessly. It may make sense to them in retrospect, at least.

“Boy, that’s an understatement,” Metatron says, exasperated. “ _Finally._ All right - cement my power in Heaven, and I’ll keep my hands off the Winchesters.” He holds out the Horn.

Metatron is right about one thing - the tattered remnant of Castiel’s Grace isn’t enough to do more than shore up Heaven, and only if he spends himself to the point of death. He’s overlooked one very important detail, however.

Castiel has a human soul now, and Missouri showed him how to find it.

“You said once that you wanted to hear my story after I died,” Castiel says.

“Well, into each life a little rain must fall,” Metatron says philosophically.

Castiel looks over at the Winchesters and feels a warm rush of affection unfurl in his chest.

“Listen closely,” he says, and takes the Horn.

The power of it unfolds before him, deep and endless and timeless, and if he were truly human he would be in danger of getting lost in it. But Castiel was an angel, perhaps still is in the important ways, and he knows how to fly.

He sinks into the power of it, and opens his mind.

He remembers Heaven, the wonder and splendor of it, the camaraderie of his siblings. He remembers the swing and swoop of the Axis Mundi and the verdant glory of the Garden and the peace of eternal Tuesday afternoons. He remembers the Choir and the Host and the ranks upon ranks of his siblings, glorious and righteous, wingtip to wingtip, from the beginning of time to the end. He feels the Grace within him flicker and die, and the fire of his soul take its place.

He remembers the Pearly Gates, and then he remembers them shut.

“What -?”

He remembers going to Hell to rescue Dean and then again, later, to rescue Sam. He remembers heat and cold, the screams of the tormented, the light of damnation and hellfire. He remembers the cackles of the imps and demons and the baying of hellhounds. He remembers Crowley’s new Hell, miserable and exhausting and endless. He remembers Dis, the Pit, Pandemonium. He remembers Meg.

He remembers the gates of Hell, and then he remembers them shut.

“ _Castiel!_ ”

His soul is blazing now, one last incandescent surge to safeguard the world that he loves so fiercely. He remembers Earth. He remembers mountains and sea anemonies and balloons and the internet. He remembers clothing patched with flowers and he remembers a baby under the desert night. He remembers books and languages and the Grand Canyon and stars and life in the face of death and dignity in the face of brutality and he remembers people, so many people, those who have helped him and hurt him and taught him and sheltered him. He remembers blanket forts and tequila and trucker caps and bees and mercy and memory. And as he feels his physical body begin to disintegrate, no longer able to hold the expanding sun of his soul, he opens his eyes and sees the Winchesters. They have taught him so much, given him so much. He would have been such a diminished thing without them. To give them the world in return seems only fair.

He smiles, and closes his eyes again, and remembers gun oil and brothels and hugs and ketchup and the Impala and cartoons and Dean and Sam, Dean and Sam, _Dean and Sam_...

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

EPILOGUE

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Castiel becomes aware of his surroundings slowly.

First there is a comforting rumble, somewhere against his back. It’s soothing. Castiel lets himself be lulled by it.

After a while, scents become apparent. There is gun oil and leather and a faint hint of cordite. He can feel the warmth of sunlight on his legs, the familiar tangle of Jimmy’s old suit and tie and overcoat. He can hear music and, above the sound of guitars and drums, two voices arguing.

“- don’t care what you say, it’s not real music unless it’s still being played on the radio twenty years later.”

“That’s a completely arbitrary distinction! I’ve heard you sing along to the top 40 stations. You’re just being difficult.”

“It’s like you’ve never met me, man.”

Castiel opens his eyes. The roof of the Impala stretches above him. Out the window he can see treetops flashing by, dappled with sunlight. If he looks to the side he can see the backs of Dean and Sam’s heads, and he feels a sudden rush of gratitude for his Father’s mercy that is so strong he almost can’t bear it. 

He never expected Heaven.

He lies and listens to the brothers argue, the motion of the car rocking him gently. He feels content and fully at peace, and it is tempting to remain there and simply listen. He remembers what Dean has told him about manners upon arrival, though, so he sits up and says “Hello.”

Dean screams and swerves off the road, which is Castiel’s first clue that this might not actually be Heaven.

A minute later, spitting out an unfortunate mixture of salt and holy water, Castiel allows himself to be dragged from the backseat by a wild-eyed Dean and slammed up against the side of the car. 

“So,” he says, when it appears that Dean and Sam are just going to stand there staring at him, “this isn’t Heaven?”

“The backseat of the Impala?” Sam says incredulously. “Wow. We have got to start showing you some better places.”

Dean reaches out and hits his brother without taking his eyes from Castiel. “Cas, you’re dead. You _died_. You freaking full on _disintegrated_ before our eyes.”

“Yes, I remember that,” Castiel says pensively. Missouri’s pretty embroidered handkerchief is still in his coat pocket, which is a thoughtful touch. He uses it to wipe the salty holy water off his face. “What happened afterwards? Did it work? Are Charlie and Kevin all right?”

“Yeah, it worked and they’re fine,” Sam says. “Metatron vanished right as you - as you, um, went. From what we’ve been able to tell, Heaven and Hell are both closed now. There were some demons left on this side when the gates of Hell shut, but we’ve been sending them back and no new ones have been popping up to replace them.”

“And the angels?” Castiel asks.

“Sucked back to Heaven,” Dean says. “Without any collateral damage, which was nice - they just glowed and left. The religious nutjobs totally freaked out and thought they’d been Left Behind, which was frankly hilarious. Cas, you’ve been gone for _months_. Was it - is your dad back?”

Castiel frowns and goes over his recent memories. He remembers using the Horn, and he remembers waking up in the Impala. In between, there had been… warmth, and comfort, and… love.

“I’m not sure,” he says slowly. “I think he must have. Or at least been there for a moment.”

“And are you… human?” Sam asks.

Castiel inventories himself. “I think so,” he says. “I don’t seem to have my angelic perceptions, but there is no hole where my Grace used to be.” He leans forward and peers intently into Dean’s eyes. Dean tries to lean away from him and Castiel pulls him back by his collar. He can see Dean’s soul, if he looks closely. “A correction: I appear to have a fraction of my angelic perceptions, or perhaps a touch of psychic sensitivity.” It should be enough, he thinks, to warn him when danger is near. He releases Dean, who looks relieved. “What have you been doing since I left?”

Sam grins. “There are still monsters out there - that hasn’t changed. We’ve been hunting, like we used to. It’s kind of weird to do it without an Apocalypse in the offering at the same time. I never thought I’d call hunting relaxing, but...” he shrugs.

Castiel smiles back. “I am glad to hear it. You are particularly well-suited for the job, I think.”

“So,” Sam says, drawing the word out. “Would it be awkward if I gave you a hug?”

Castiel remembers a similar conversation. “No,” he says, a strangely shy feeling of pleasure moving through him.

It’s a good hug. Sam is very big.

“All right, all right, it’s nice to see you,” Dean says gruffly, moving in for his own embrace when Sam is done. “You _assbutt_.” 

Castiel smiles into Dean’s collar. “I love you too.”

**Author's Note:**

> The things that Castiel remembers are, in order: The Death of the Firstborn from Exodus 11:1-12:26, the invasion and massacre of Delhi by Timur (Tamerlane) in 1398, and the Warsaw Ghetto Uprising of 1943 (well, technically shortly before the actual uprising). Offscreen he also remembers Leopold II’s reign of terror in the Congo Free State (1885-1908) and a bunch of other particularly shameful bits of human history.
> 
>  **ETA:** Now with gorgeous [fanart](http://tales-at-dusk.tumblr.com/post/94847500778/cas-in-the-archives-this-is-from-galaxystews-fic) by the amazing tales-at-dusk!


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